


Another Lover, Another Friend

by sparxwrites



Series: Ivory [2]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Altered Mental States, Blood, Blood Magic, Consent Issues, Demigods, Dissociation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, Rough Sex, Sexual Abuse, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-28 05:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6316801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parvis and Strife's friendship ends the way it was always going to end - in tears, and in blood - and Ridgedog is oh-so-helpfully there to pick up the pieces. </p><p>With fresh lives, fresh memories, and a fresh chance, Parvis and Strife start over again, building something new and far better than they had before. And, as for Ridge, well... Parvis <i>also</i> wakes up with Ridge, with a fresh life and fresh memories, and learns to wish that he'd never opened his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so, wotf is upon us, and this is my offering: accidental longfic, from the person who doesn’t write longfic. in the spirit of wotf, this is something isis and i came up with all the way back in january 2015, and were too scared to do a full fic of at the time - pro-purity politics and anti-ridge sentiment were high, and we were scared lil scrubby newbies. so, this is me, writing something i was scared to write. turns out, there was probably a good reason for that, cos this is fucked-up and disgusting, but it’s too late now...
> 
> (Credit where credit is due, to: @depravityandsleaze on tumblr for chatlogging / rping large chunks of this out with me, and allowing me to use the ideas and quote her dialogue directly in a few places. Also @mindfulwrath as always for the delightful “blood magic = boners” headcanon. A follow-on from "if there's blood on my face it's the way that we all go", so read that first.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **tw** explicit sex, mild dubcon, blood, murder, blood magic, manipulation, (largely hypothetical) necrophillia

“…Wasn’t that guy your friend?” asked Ridge, hovering his customary four inches off the floor in one of the more shadowy corners of Parvis’ blood magic room. The blood mage had barely bothered to light the place up, a few haphazard torches and no windows given the whole place was sunk below the ground. Most of the light was crimson, flickering, given off by the blood altar in the centre of the room.

He’d felt Strife’s death, even half a continent away, and was surprised – Strife was usually so careful, almost _meticulous_ , unless he was with Parvis and they were both doing something stupid. So when Parvis had failed to tumble into the void after him and send vibrations across the spider’s web of the respawn net strung across that vast expanse of emptiness, Ridge had been intrigued.

It’d been the work of a thought to write a command into the source code of the universe with dirty-white light dragged from deep inside him, and pull himself across the world to Strife’s grave. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d been expecting to find but… whatever it was, this wasn’t it.

Parvis jumped, guiltily – and the minute his hands shifted and his grip loosened, the altar sucked and gurgled and dragged Strife’s corpse the rest of the way in with an unpleasantly wet, _hungry_ sound.

When it was empty, it was little more than a shallow bowl, an unholy parody of a christening font you might find in a church. Like this, Parvis knew, he could stick his arm in it up to the shoulder and beyond. He’d tried it, once, a mere week or two ago, sticking his hand in and _pushing,_ until he was covered in blood and gore from fingertip to elbow and the bottomless hunger of the altar had made him feel uneasy.

He hadn’t quite realised, though, that it was deep enough to swallow an entire body in one gulp.

“Oh, hah- hi, Ridge!” he said, warily, voice pitched a little higher than normal. When the demigod made no move to avenge Strife’s very recent murder with divine retribution, though, he relaxed, leaning casually back against the altar as it slowly, noisily digested its latest meal. The little ripples of power that kept running off it as Strife was slowly absorbed made his skin ripple with static, the hairs on his arms standing on end. “I mean… yeah, he was, but I- well. I kind of wore him out. Broke him a bit. Had to put him down. You know how it is, right? People break so _easily._ ”

He stuck his lower lip out in a dramatic sort of pout, and sighed. “Ah well,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. The altar grumbled again, like an overstuffed stomach, and he _shuddered_ with the fizzling fistful of power it dumped down his spine when it finished digesting whatever was causing it issues. “I’ll just have to find another friend, I guess! A new quest for Parvy-Parv.”

Ridge was eyeing him, oddly, a sideways sort of glance that made Parvis’ neck prickle for an entirely different reason.

For half a second, his hand strayed towards his hip, and the bound blade that hung there in the form of a crimson marble – and then stopped. Ridge’s face had split into a wide, gap-toothed grin, the faint crease between his eyebrows smoothing out.

“Why, _Parvis_ ,” said Ridge, the low murmur of his words carrying easily in the cavernous room. He strolled through the air, golden eyes flaming and fixed on Parvis, and settled lightly, gracefully on the floor in front of him. Holding his arms wide, he smiled – and _oh_ , that smile. It was bright and devastating, inhumanly beautiful, face porcelain-doll perfect and full of something inexplicably, seductively divine. “Aren’t _I_ your friend?”

Parvis, wide-eyed and slack-jawed in the face of Ridge’s divinity at full-power, had no response to that.

“…Parvis?” prompted Ridge, gently, dialling down his presence a moment and reaching out to cup Parvis’ cheek oh-so-gently with one large, warm hand.

Gasping in a breath, as if surfacing after drowning, Parvis shook his head to try and clear some of the glittering fog from his brain. “My- my friend,” he repeatedly, a little dumbly, blinking slowly up at Ridge. “Yeah,” he breathed, half-leaning into Ridge’s touch as everything sharpened up now he wasn’t being blinded by what felt like the emotional equivalent of the fucking _sun_. “Yeah, you’re my best friend! You gave me all those villagers and stuff, and helped me with blood magic, and you’re basically a-”

He cut off with a gasp as the altar gurgled and groaned again, hot power and ecstasy down his spine. “Ah, fuck-” he muttered, eyelids fluttering. It was too much, all too much, Ridge in front of him and the altar behind him and so much bright, dirty-white light behind his eyelids that it almost hurt.

Ridge saw his chance, and took it.

There were suddenly lips on Parvis’, warm and soft and insistent, a thumb brushing over the curve of his jaw, and he didn’t have the presence of mind to think anything other than _yes_. He leant into the kiss, hungry, messy, kissing back open-mouthed and nipping at Ridge’s lip. It refused to split beneath his teeth, but his did when Ridge returned the favour, a copper-sharp burst in his mouth that made him moan.

Ridge put a hand on his waist, tugged him closer, and Parvis went with it so easily – away from the altar and into Ridge’s arms. He kissed like he was dying, like he was drowning, and when Ridge sucked on his lower lip to taste the blood there he made the most _beautiful_ sounds.

Pulling away, Ridge hummed quietly in satisfaction, licking the taste of Parvis off his lips and teeth with a slow, lazy tongue movement. “Just sealing the deal,” he said, as if Parvis wasn’t panting and clutching white-knuckled at the altar behind him where he’d slumped against it just to stay on his feet. “You know how it is, right? Gotta make these things official.”

“You could’ve _asked_ first!” gasped Parvis, eyes huge and dark and _starving_. The feeling of staring into the sun was fading, but the high of the altar was still fizzing its way through his hindbrain, and the heat Ridge’s kiss had kindled low in his stomach was still there _._ “But- _fuck-_ ”

“Well,” said Ridge, lowly, in a voice like liquid fire. “We could, if you like.” He grinned, pressing closer, sliding the hand on Parvis’ waist high, high up under his shirt, soft fingers against bare skin until he could close a thumb and forefinger around one of Parvis’ nipples. Parvis twitched, gasped, entire body stiffening against Ridge’s where they were pressed hip to ribs. “I mean… we _are_ best friends now, aren’t we?”

Parvis didn’t answer – just whined, needy and animal, hands braced against the blood altar behind him. He rocked his hips against Ridge’s in a greedy shove, eyes dark and pupils blown, already half-hard as he rutted against the solidity of Ridge’s hip.

“Oh, I can see why Strife kept you around,” murmured Ridge, letting go of Parvis’ jaw to rest a hand on Parvis’ hip again, guiding his rocking into a steady, sinuous rhythm. “At least at first. You’re such _fun_.” He pinched Parvis’ nipple again, blunt nails digging into sensitive flesh, and pressed his open mouth against the line of Parvis’ stubbly jaw in a soft, wet kiss as a counterpoint. It was _delicious_ , the way his breathing hitched, the way he squirmed.

If mortals were ordinarily putty in his hands, Parvis was practically _liquid_. A kiss or two against his throat, the slightest hint of teeth against the heavy throb of his pulse, easy friction on his cock and a thumb rubbing over a nipple flushed with attention and tweaking – shirt discarded, dragged off at the slightest hint from Ridge – and he’d got Parvis bent over the altar, hard and desperate and panting like a bitch in heat.

Ridge didn’t bother stretching Parvis out, didn’t have the patience for it. The mage was high enough off the blood altar, still slowly digesting its recent meal, that he’d barely feel it – and he seemed to like the pain, besides, moaning every time Ridge sank his teeth into soft skin over the wings of his shoulderblades. He ran fingers down Parvis’ spine, laid out before him, slipped fingers down further still to press the pad of one thumb against his hole. When Parvis gasped, tried to push back against it with a greedy shove, Ridge decided he was ready.

Reluctantly pulling his hand away, leaving Parvis swearing and rocking his hips against thin air, he slicked his cock up with a few slow, indulgent strokes and a minor abuse of his power. Pressing a hand against the small of Parvis’ back, he shifted forward until his cock nudged against Parvis’ arse.

“You want to beg for me?” he asked, idly, leaning forward to scrape teeth down the line of Parvis’ neck and the top of his spine, rocking his hips ever so slightly so Parvis could feel the blunt push of his dick. “C’mon, baby boy. Beg for my cock.”

“Just- c’mon, just fuck me already!” whined Parvis, jerking his hips backwards, face close enough to the blood in the altar that it rippled with every word. He could feel Ridge’s dick pressed between his cheeks, rubbing against his hole, and it was near enough to drive him mad. Already buzzing from the blood altar, keyed up from Ridge’s touching and teasing, he didn’t have anything left in him other than _want_. “Please, Ridge, please, just hurry up- _c’mon_. Stop teasing, just- just-”

As begging went, it wasn’t the best Ridge had ever heard, but it was good enough. He didn’t have the patience to tease for much longer, anyway – there had already been far too much _waiting_ involved.

Ridge pushed in slowly, almost carefully, groaning the entire way. Parvis was impossibly tight, warm and welcoming and _perfect_ , gasping and whimpering with every inch of dick that Ridge slid into him. Whether it was because Ridge was a demigod, or whether he was more out of it than he thought, Parvis didn’t know, but it just seemed impossibly _big_. The slow slide of it seemed to go on forever, driving the breath out him, taking up every inch of space he had in him and then some.

His eyes were rolled almost back into his head by the time Ridge was fully-sheathed, balls pressed against the curve of Parvis’ arse and the entirety of his cock inside of Parvis, filling him up. “C’mon-!” he tried, but the word came out as a moan, weak and thready, stirring the blood in the altar. There was nothing left in his lungs to speak with, nothing left inside him other than Ridge’s cock.

Ridge just _laughed_ , high and giggling, and ran blunt fingernails parallel to the length of Parvis’ spine. They were still enough to scratch though, raised red lines left in their wake, and Parvis’ hips bucked back against Ridge’s on almost instinct. “Oh, Parvis, _Parvis_ ,” murmured Ridge, leaning over him until they were pressed chest-to-back, clothes against bare skin. “What am I going to _do_ with you, hmm?”

The question was rhetorical, but that didn’t stop Parvis trying to answer it. It was entertaining, hearing him manage the start of a word and then lose it to a moan when Ridge pulled out ever so slightly and rocked back in with an easy shove of his hips. Every time he came close to finding his words, Ridge pulled out a little further, pushed back in with a little more force, until he was fucking Parvis hard enough to bruise his bony hips against the altar.

It didn’t take long for Parvis to adjust and start talking, though. Most of it was begging, or goading, or simply Ridge’s name over and over, laced between expletives like an obscene prayer. Some of it was just whimpering, the small noises driven out of him somewhere between _animal_ and _well-fucked_.

Somewhere along the line, even the words turned to whimpers, and Ridge _grinned_ , slowing his thrusts again just to hear Parvis sob.

“You want to come?” he breathed into Parvis’ ear, grinning when Parvis nodded frantically, nose dipping into the blood of the altar with the movement. Trailing fingers up Parvis’ flank just to feel him twitch, he wrapped thick fingers around the back of Parvis’ neck like a collar. When he dug his nails in, Parvis moaned, and Ridge couldn’t quite believe the good luck that had led him to end up with a such a slut for pain squirming beneath him. “C’mon, baby boy, use your words.”

Parvis whined, high and animal and desperate. “Yes!” he managed, words making the blood in the altar ripple with how close his lips were to the congealed, too-warm liquid bubbling in it. “Yes, _yes_ , Ridge, fuck- please- _touch me_ , c’mon, fuckin’ touch me, want it-” He shoved back to meet Ridge’s thrust, eyes almost rolling up into his head at how _good_ Ridge felt balls-deep in him. “ _Yes_ -”

“Tough _shit_ ,” snarled Ridge, and shoved his head down into the altar.

For the barest minute, Parvis was still, frozen with shock despite being up to the nape of his neck in blood. Then he began struggle, thrashing, making the altar churn as he writhed and twisted in Ridge’s grip, bucking up against the body above him.

It was easy to hold him down, though, a hand on the back of his neck and another on the small of his back – Ridge was bigger than him, and stronger besides. With the demigod’s entire weight bearing down on him, and porcelain-hard skin that refused to break or bruise no matter how much he scratched and clawed and kicked, Parvis had no chance.

Ridge fucked him through it, steady and easy, grunting with every thrust. “Fuck,” he muttered as Parvis shook beneath him, movements slowing, struggles growing weaker. “ _Fuck_ , you’re a wriggly little- _ohh_.”

Parvis could hold his breath no longer and had inhaled thick, congealed blood, had spasmed as it hit his lungs. His fingers clutched convulsively at the edge of the altar, entire body clenching – and Ridge gasped at the sudden tightness around his dick.

“Oh, that’s good,” he moaned, kissing the soft skin of Parvis’ neck just above the line of the blood and panting as his thrusts spread up. The heat in his gut was rising, hotter and hotter, sparks up his spine and down his thighs in an all-too-familiar sign that he was close. “Fuck, keep doing that- just like that-”

Another thrust, and another, Parvis twitching beneath him and clenching around him, and Ridge came with a low, rough groan. He kept thrusting as he emptied himself into the slowly-drowning blood mage, panting and gasping, filling Parvis with his come.

A few last bubbles rose sluggishly through the blood, surfacing and bursting with a thick, wet noise, and then Parvis was still.

Ridge had pulled out before the body stopped twitching and, by the time Parvis was dead, he was tucking himself neatly back into his boxers. The ex-mage made quite the picture, Ridge had to admit – scars over half his skin, scratches and bite-marks across the rest by way of Ridge’s handiwork, creamy come dripping down his thighs as he lay limp and face-down in the blood.

Unlike Parvis, Ridge was unsentimental and efficient, shoving the rest of Parvis unceremoniously into the altar. Permanently hungry as it was, it seemed to have no moral qualms over consuming its previous guardian with a low slurp.

Dusting his hands off and whistling cheerfully to himself, he nodded, with the satisfaction of a job well done, and looked around.

“I can feel you watching, Kirin!” he called, warmly, shoving his hands in his pockets and staring up at the ceiling. Not that Kirin was literally watching – but it was all to easy, for a _thing_ as old and powerful as himself, to feel metaphysical eyes on the back of his neck. “You- you dirty old bastard, you.”

There was no answer, and he indulged himself in a moment of quiet giggling. “C’mon, I know you’re there. If you wanted to join in all you’d’ve had to do was _ask_.”

 _…I did_ not _want to join. I wanted to see if you were going to fix that little problem you’d made._ The disapproval was thick in Kirin’s voice when it echoed softly in the back of Ridge’s head, a whisper for his ears only.

“Of course I was!” said Ridge, indignantly, kicking back and relaxing in midair with his hands behind his head. “I was hardly going to let him run around with enough power to threaten even _me_. I mean, come on- it’s been fun, messing with the pair of them and all, and oh, _man_ , they fucked each other up better that I could have expected in my wildest dreams. But blood magic is just… it’s so _overpowered_.”

He sighed, shaking his head and staring up at the ceiling. “I couldn’t really let that arrogant little shit end up as a god, now, could I? And little Strifey getting finished off too was just the icing on the cake- or, wait, no, fucking Parvis was the icing on the cake, actually. It’s a pity I only got to do it once – didn’t even get to fuck his mouth.” Glancing over at the altar, he hummed thoughtfully. “I mean. Well. I _guess_ I could… If I _really_ wanted to…”

 _You’d fish a_ dead body _out of the altar for…_ that _?_ The word _concerned_ didn’t even begin to describe Kirin’s tone of voice.

Humming thoughtfully, Ridge tapped a finger against his lips in thought and grinned a wide, gap-toothed grin. “No, you’re probably right,” he agreed, lazily. “Wouldn’t really be as good if he couldn’t suck. Or choke.”

 _You’re disgusting_ , said Kirin, an absent, icy sort of disapproval to their words. Despite the fact they weren’t physically present, Ridge could almost _see_ their expression – arched eyebrows, three half-lidded eyes, lips pursed into a thin line.

Ridge pulled a face, sticking his tongue out a little and making a _blah, blah, blah_ sort of motion with one hand. “Oh yeah, and you’re as pure as a pretty white snowflake,” he agreed, words dripping amused sarcasm. “Isn’t that little witch you’re shacking up with _basically_ a walking corpse?”

The lack of response from Kirin said it all, really, and Ridge allowed himself a moment of victory. “Besides,” he said, a few seconds later when he’d grown bored of his silent gloating – carefully, deliberately projected so Kirin would hear it, “they’ll both respawn, won’t they? I can take whatever I want then.”

Kirin hummed, quietly, in the dark recesses of the back of his mind, and Ridge grit his teeth at the way it grated against his nerves. _Parvis is hardly going to want anything to do with you, after this,_ they pointed out.

“Parvis,” said Ridge, cheerfully, “isn’t going to remember a single goddamn thing.” He sighed, tilting a little bit further back into the air and crossing his legs. “I’m not gonna let him respawn with all that knowledge, I mean, come _on_!” With just a little stretch of his senses, he could feel the web of the respawn, Parvis and Strife’s souls twitching and thrashing in ice-cold agony as he held them captive there. “He was getting powerful enough to challenge even _me_. Only a little, though,” he added quickly.

 _You can’t just_ take _Parvis,_ said Kirin, long-suffering buzzkill that they were. _They’ve been a partnership since the last universe, they need to_ stay _together. Thank god they’ve been relatively isolationist – you can rewind this universe, as far as their memories are concerned, but they’ll be suspicious if they’re not with one another._ A pause, where Ridge stuck out his lower lip like a petulant child and rolled his eyes. _I’m serious, Ridge. I’ve put up with your awful little games so far, but Parvis stays with Strife._

“So what am I supposed to do?” whined Ridge. “He’s going to be _impossible_ to get a hold of if he’s with Strife, you _know_ how he looks at that little alien shit. It’s like the sun shines out of his glowing green asshole, or something. I don’t want to _share_ , I want my _own_ \- oh. _Ohh_.” His eyes widened, excited at his own sheer genius. “Oh, now _there’s_ an idea.”

 _What?_ asked Kirin, sharply, and there was a note of alarm in his voice. Nothing good ever came of that kind of self-satisfied glee coming from Ridge. _What are you planning? I_ mean _it, Ridge. I put up with you playing games with them before, but I_ will _interfere this time. You don’t want to see me interfering, Ridge_.

Rolling his eyes hard enough his eye sockets ached, Ridge pulled a face. Kirin _never_ interfered – and he wasn’t all that powerful, either, from what Ridge had seen. He wasn’t scared by the threat.

“None of your business,” he said, snidely, and then winced at the rolling wave of disapproval that made his skull throb momentarily. “Yeah, yeah, I get it! I’ll leave Parv with Strife, don’t get your antlers in a twist. I’m just planning a little _fun_ , is all.” The lewd grin that stretched across his face left no doubts as to what he meant by _fun_.

 _…You know what,_ said Kirin, exasperated, _how you go about sating your_ … _urges is none of my business. Do what you want, as long as Parvis stays with Strife. I’ll be watching_.

“Damn right it isn’t,” agreed Ridge, almost automatically. “Although, uh- you might wanna watch Parv and Strife, rather than me, or you’re gonna see an awful lot of my dick. Unless you’re into that? You’re probably into that, aren’t you. I mean. It _is_ a pretty good dick – or at least, Parvis seemed to think so.”

Kirin’s silence sounded like a victory.

Letting out a small sigh of satisfaction, Ridge cast around for something else to say – something to piss Kirin off, as a parting shot. Grinning sleazily when he got it, he moved one hand from behind his head and traced it down, down his chest to rest casually over his own crotch “So, uh… hey, baby,” he purred, rubbing himself absent-mindedly. “What’re you wearing?”

The faint tickle at the back of his mind vanished almost immediately, leaving behind only the memory of an itch and a lingering disgust. Ridge practically _howled_ with laughter, kicking out at the air and grabbing at is ribs when they began to hurt. “Ohh, boy,” he managed, eventually, wiping at his eyes when his mirth finally faded. “Jesus, Kirin, you’re so _easy_.”

Flipping himself upright with a heave of his upper body and the smallest flicker of power, he drew in a deep breath and ran hands down the front of his coat to straighten out the imagined creases there. “Right,” he said to himself, pulling himself together and smoothing his expression out into his normal, doll-like mask – a pleasant gap-toothed smile, glittering golden eyes, and perfectly coiffed hair. “Let’s go see ol’ Xeph again, and get myself a Parvis.”

It was time to pay Yoglabs a visit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **tw** MAJOR GORE WARNING, explicit sex, noncon, torture, dehumanisation, blood, disordered thinking

“Aww, come on, pet,” said Ridge, disappointment thick in every word. For once, he was walking on the ground, but he still towered over the cowering creature on the floor before him. The room they were in was small, little more than a smooth basalt box lit by a single torch – and, big as as he was, Ridge seemed to fill the entirety of it. “We’ve been over this- how many times? No talking.”

Parvis let out a low, thin noise that shivered in his chest and escaped as a whine of terror. “Sorry- sorry-” he gasped, before catching sight of the look in Ridge’s eye and misinterpreting. “Master!” he choked out, still crawling backwards as fast as he could with one useless, misshapen leg dragging behind him until he’d backed himself into a corner. “Sorry- sorry _master_ , sorry, sorry-”

“Still with the goddamn talking.” Ridge shook his head, sighing heavily. He hefted the pair of shiny new pliers he was holding in one hand a little higher, letting the torchlight glint off them. “I’ve _got_ to do it now, haven’t I?”

It was really quite remarkable what six months of intensive training could do, thought Ridge, grinning down at his pet. Naked, shaking, covered in its own blood and filth, the _thing_ trembling at his feet was barely recognisable as _human_ , let alone Parvis.

The only real similarity between the real Parvis and this thing that wore his face was those dark, glittering eyes – or _eye_ , rather. The other had a circle of dull, cloudy red in the place of a pupil and iris, where Ridge had backhanded him hard enough to detach the retina. It left Parvis half-blind with an eye full of blood, twitching at every movement on his bad side, the swollen eyeball a constant, throbbing headache against the inside of his eye socket.

There was nothing else recognisable about him. His distinctive profile was gone – nose healed wrong after one of Ridge’s endless blows has broken it, cheeks hollow with hunger. The soft, messy hair he used to have had been cut in patchy, uneven chunks, just long enough to grab a handful of.

Scars – thick, ropey things, so different from the thin, silvery marks of blood magic he’d worn in crosshatches in another life – marred his naked body, along with fresher cuts and scratches. The rest of him was bruises, seemingly blooming purple-blue and green-yellow wherever Ridge touched him. Ridge had a tendency to forget how easily mortals’ bodies broke.

He was a shell, physically, and Ridge was slowly but surely working on the mentally, too.

Exhaling shakily, eyes flicking from side to side, Parvis eyed the spaces between Ridge and the walls, as if he thought he could slip through them without being caught when he could barely move faster than a slow crawl. It was almost funny, Ridge thought, grinning at the rising terror in his prey’s eyes.

“Please…” whispered Parvis, again, licking anxiously at his lips. With nowhere else to go, he leaned in, exhaling shakily and parting his lips to press his open mouth against Ridge’s crotch, mouthing at it and whining against the fabric as he trembled. “Please, _please_ -”

“Aww. You’re getting so _good_ ,” said Ridge, indulgently, reaching down to pet Parvis’ uneven, patchy hair in a mockery of tenderness. “See? You _can_ learn, after all.” He hummed quietly, rocking his hips forward against Parvis’ mouth – hardly talented, despite six months’ practice, but wet and warm even through his trousers nonetheless. “Good pet.”

After a moment’s indulgence, though, he grabbed Parvis’ throat in one broad hand and dragged him away, more than a little reluctantly. Parvis had started up his gasping sobs again, and Ridge grinned. “There’ll be time for that after those pesky little teeth of yours have come out, though.”

Parvis was whimpering like a wounded dog, eyes wide, whites all the way round as he trembled in Ridge’s grip.

“That’s better!” said Ridge, brighty, tightening his hold until Parvis’ whimpers turned to desperate choking. “No more talking.” Parvis was wheezing now, near-soundlessly, eyes half rolled back into his skull and fingers clawing at Ridge’s wrist, lips turning blue. “Can you hear that, pet?” asked Ridge, barely paying attention to Parvis’ steadily-weakening thrashing. “That’s _silence_. Proper, honest to _fucking god_ silence, because you’re not making those awful _goddamn_ mouth-noises of yours. Isn’t it _nice_?”

He hummed happily, pressing a thumb to Parvis’ lower lip and tugging it down to eye the white of his teeth with a critical eye. “Oh yeah, you’re gonna look a _lot_ better with these gone, aren’t you?” he murmured, pressing a thumb against the smooth surface of them, rubbing gently – before grabbing Parvis’ jaw and prying it open with bruising force to push two fingers inside, rubbing and groping at his tongue and molars.

The moment the fingers were in his mouth, Parvis – too oxygen-deprived to act on anything than blind, terrified animal instinct – bit down.

In one fluid motion, Ridge let go of his throat and backhanded him across the face. Something crunched, and Parvis’ nose began bleeding again, a thin, sluggish trickle of crimson over his lips and chin as he crumpled against the wall with the force of the blow, sobbing. “Hey. Hey! I thought we’d gotten over the biting,” he said, sternly, examining his completely unmarked fingers as Parvis slowly, laboriously hauled himself back onto one knee, the other leg crooked out strangely to one side. Ridge had broken it, months ago, hadn’t bothered to set it or speed up the healing, and now it just didn’t bend.

“Although, it’s not like you can actually hurt me,” acquiesced Ridge, shrugging, grabbing Parvis’ throat again in a bruise-tight grip. “Hah! Could you imagine, if you could _hurt_ me? That’d be messed up.”

The pliers flashed in the corner of Parvis' view, and he gasped, began to sob, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He didn't expect it to have any influence on Ridge – and it didn't – but he couldn't help it, far past rational thought, past the possibility of controlling himself. By the time the pliers pushed into his mouth, cold and bitter metal on his tongue, he was practically hyperventilating, vision going a foggy grey at the edges.

“Stop that,” scolded Ridge, letting the pliers just sit there for a moment, heavy and frigid against the tender insides of his mouth. “It's no _fun_ if you pass out, c'mon. Think about my feelings for once, huh?” He grinned, giggling at his own joke, at the way Parvis was drooling around the metal in his mouth. With how far back it was against his tongue, almost to the soft palate at the back of his mouth, he couldn’t close his lips around it or even swallow

Eventually, though, Ridge grew bored of watching Parvis gasp too-fast and wild-eyed as spit dripped from the corners of his mouth in glittering strings.

Humming softly to himself, he shifted the pliers, rubbing them back and forth against Parvis' tongue. “Where're we gonna start?” he asked, thoughtfully, staring at Parvis with an artist's critical eye. “Back teeth is probably traditional, but that's kinda boring, and- oh! I know. Canines, that sounds fun. You're gonna look ridiculous just missing, like, four teeth. Oh man.”

Parvis would have struggled, would have twisted and thrashed in Ridge's grip, but between the hand around his throat and the too-fast heave of his lungs, he was beginning to feel light-headed, dizzy, too-heavy. As it was, he could barely manage to try and twist his head away, unsuccessfully, one kitten-weak hand coming up to paw at Ridge's wrist.

“Shh, shh,” soothed Ridge, closing the nose of the pliers around Parvis' top-left canine – a small, unnaturally sharp little tooth. He vaguely remembered the Parvis of old delighting in how much his canines looked like fangs. “Don't worry. You deserve this, remember? That’s why _I’ve_ got you. ‘Cause you were so goddamn awful that no one else _wanted_ you. You remember that, Parvis, right?”

He adjusted his grip on the pliers a little, clamping them down hard enough that the tooth fractured under the pressure, nearly shattered altogether. “Oh, whoops! Hah, kinda fragile, aren'tcha?”

Parvis stared up at him, confused, terrified, _animal_ – and Ridge laughed, and yanked his arm backwards.

Without any twisting to loosen the tooth, it didn't come away without a fight. Ridge was strong enough to easily pull it free, but it brought a substantial amount of Parvis' gum with it, too. Flesh clung around the small lump of bone, two of the roots fractured and cracked and still lodged into the bone of his jaw.

Parvis _howled_ , screaming as best as he could around the pliers still half-inside his mouth. It didn't last long – the pliers pulled out, and he started choking on the blood and spit running down his throat, bitter, nauseating copper against his tongue. “No-” he gasped, forgetting not to talk with the horror and pain. “No, no-! Please-”

He was shaking, uncontrollably, fine tremors as the pain dumped adrenaline into his veins, enough to send his head spinning even worse. It numbed the pain a little, but not _enough_ – and he could still feel the space in his mouth where the tooth should be, a cold, aching hollow, nothing there when his tongue strayed too close to the ruined section of gum.

“One down, three to go!” said Ridge, cheerfully, opening the pliers and dropping the gory tooth. It fell into Parvis' lap, hitting one thigh and bouncing to the floor, leaving a bright splatter of blood against his skin. “Out of this lot, anyways- we'll get them all out eventually, don't worry.” He frowned down at Parvis, at his tear-streaked face and the blood running out of the corners of his mouth and the way he was twitching and begging. “Might take a while if you make a goddamn _fuss_ about, though. Calm down, c'mon, it's not _that_ bad.”

He pushed the pliers back in, and Parvis _moaned_ , a low, thin noise of pleading terror. “No, no-” he tried, around the metal. It came out as _nngaa_ , short and breathless, as the pliers closed around another tooth.

Ridge eyed the metal clamped around gleaming bone for a moment, twisting the pliers from side to side absently to watch the gum around it warp and redden. "I'd do this with my fingers, if I could," he said, conversationally, carrying on the twisting long after he'd loosened it enough to pull it out easily. Parvis was squirming, and it was such a _good_ look on him, Ridge couldn't resist. "But teeth are- surprisingly small, actually, and kinda slippery. Hard to get a good grip on, so! Pliers it is."

Smiling, he yanked the tooth out without warning again. Less gum came away with it, this time, loose as it was, but there was still plenty of blood – streaming from the other side of his upper jaw, this time – and Parvis still screamed like he'd been run through with a sword.

“Aww, the little vampire's lost his fangs,” Ridge teased, dropping the tooth in Parvis' lap again and prodding at the ruined, tender gum with the nose of the pliers just to see Parvis writhe away. He tilted his head so far back his neck cricked in an attempt to escape the agony of cold metal against sore flesh, sobbing in great, gasping heaves of air. “Ah well.”

Ridge didn't mess around with twisting the next canine, but he didn't pull it out immediately, either – just closed the pliers around it and pulled, ever-so-gently and ever-so-slowly, dragging it out of its rooting millimeter by agonising millimeter. Parvis was gasping, panting, stuck shaking in Ridge’s grasp as the pain increased until he was screaming again, screaming and _screaming_ as the tooth came free with a wet, gradual tearing sound, and-

The rest of Parvis’ teeth were dealt with efficiently, if not quickly or without creativity – the pliers went in, and they came back out again with a tooth. Ridge kept up a bruising grip on Parvis’ neck the whole time, too-tight, and Parvis soon ran out of breath to struggle, to scream, to do anything other than hang there limply as tooth after tooth was removed and blood ran down his throat, struggling to breathe.

By the end of it, Parvis was _gone_ , breath rasping in a throat raw from screaming and his eyes hazy with dissociation – and Ridge was so hard it _hurt_.

“You know what I should get you?” he asked, letting go of Parvis’ neck to pick the last of Parvis’ teeth from the pliers and put them back in his coat pocket. He examined the molar, turning the small piece of cream-white bone over and over in his fingers, rubbing a hand idly over the bulge in his trousers with a low moan. “A collar. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Maybe I wouldn’t have to drag you about by your hair so much.”

Parvis, who had collapsed to the floor the minute he was no longer being held up, said nothing. It was an effort just to keep on breathing, in, out, in, out, a slow rasp of breath as his lungs inflated and deflated. Every time he inhaled, it hurt, cold air over ruined gums and exposed nerves as he drooled blood onto the floor. There was no way he could close his mouth, not when his entire jaw felt broken – and he knew what that felt like, Ridge had done that before, too, early on, when he'd talked too much – and his lower face was a white-hot fireball of pain.

"Are you listening to me?" asked Ridge, nudging him with one toe and wrinkling his nose at the pinkish puddle forming at the side of Parvis' mouth. "I'm offering you nice things, you know. Don't you want nice things?" Still no answer, Parvis' eyes blank and empty as mirrors. "…Well, I guess you don't, then. _Weird_."

Slipping the tooth into one of his coat pockets as a keepsake, he crouched down and curled a hand into Parvis' hair, tilting it until their gazes met. “Hello? Anyone home?” He sighed with frustration when Parvis still failed to answer. “Goddamnit. I forget how _fragile_ you guys are. I'm guessing you're not gonna be able to kneel.”

He cast around the room, apparently looking for furniture, before remembering where they were. Hissing out a mild curse, he straightened up again, one hand in Parvis' hair – dragging him, ragdoll-limp, into something approximating kneeling. Parvis' jaw hung open like he was a marionette, chin a flaking, crimson mess, blood still drooling out the corners of his lips.

Ridge couldn't help but laugh at the sight, though it stoked a flame out of the already smouldering heat in his gut. “God damn,” he said, appreciatively, catching Parvis' chin to run a thumb across the space where his teeth used to sit in his lower jaw. The gum was silky-soft, slick with blood, and he could only imagine how heavenly it was going to feel around his dick. “God _damn_ , Parvis.”

Pulling his hand away to grope at himself, squeezing his length through the fabric of his trousers, he moaned. “Doubt you're going to enjoy this as much as I am,” he breathed, fumbling with the buttons and zipper, pushing his coat to one side with a frustrated noise when the fabric got in the way. “But honestly, I don't really give a fuck, so-”

He finally managed to get the button open, tugging down the zip and shoving a hand inside his trousers to tug the waistband of his boxers down. “Oh, man,” he muttered, hips already rocking forward ever so slightly as he took a moment to just _touch_ himself, rubbing a thumb still damp with Parvis' blood across the base of his cock and tugging on his balls. “This is gonna be _so good_.”

Finally, he could stand it no longer, and let his cock spring free with a groan. The cold air was enough to make him hiss – but, a second later, he was sinking into the slick, bloody heat of Parvis' mouth, and nothing else mattered because it was _bliss_.

Limp as Parvis was, he slid in easily, the head of his cock brushing across ruined gums and a lax tongue and down into Parvis' throat. If Parvis had had any gag reflex to begin with, Ridge had trained it out of him long ago, and his throat didn't even tighten reflexively as Ridge pushed in all the way to the root. Parvis' broken nose was crushed up against the base of Ridge’s stomach, the odd angles of it shoved hard enough into the hair and slight softness there that Ridge could practically _feel_ the cartilage clicking.

He didn't care, though, too absorbed on how good it felt, fucking into Parvis' mouth when it was so slick and wet and warm, and there were no pesky _teeth_ to worry about.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he murmured, reaching down to pet Parvis' cheek and shove a thumb in alongside his cock, just because he could. Pressing a thumbnail into the ruined gum was enough to make Parvis twitch, he found, to his delight – so he did it again, and again, until some of the light returned to Parvis’ eyes.

“Hey. Hey!” Ridge said, slipping his thumb out and patting Parvis' cheek insistently. Tears had begun to roll down them again, slowly – apparently the pain had returned along with conscious thought – but Ridge didn't mind. Parvis looked so _cute_ when he cried, after all. “Hey, c'mon, try and suck at least a _bit_. I mean, this is nice-" He pulled out a little, and pushed back in almost agonisingly slowly, groaning, eyes half lidded. "Oh, _fuck_ , this is nice. But some sucking would be nice, too.”

He wasn't sure Parvis heard him, through the pain. A moment later, though, he started whimpering, thin vibrations around the head of Ridge's cock where it was lodged down his throat – which wasn't sucking, but it was almost as good. Pulling out further, this time, Ridge pushed back in, hunched over Parvis' head like he'd been punched in the gut. It was good, _so good_ , he couldn't quite believe he'd never done this before.

It didn't take long for him to reach the edge, fucking the slick warmth of Parvis' mouth, throat vibrating around him with erratic noises of pain. He'd started slow, savouring every moment, every slow drag and slide, but he couldn't help speeding up as the fire in his stomach banked higher and higher until it was a roaring flame. By the time was close enough to feel the familiar tightening coiling in his gut, he was fucking Parvis' throat with a single-minded intensity, both hands in Parvis' hair and a steady stream of moans falling from his lips.

When Ridge came, it was to the memory of the way Parvis had screamed when that first tooth had come out, spilling hot and bitter down his throat with a cry of pleasure.

He kept Parvis there, for a long while, hands fisted in Parvis’ hair and holding him all the way down to the root of his cock as he softened in Parvis’ throat. Only when his breathing had slowed, no longer panting but slow and heavy at the continued wet warmth around him, did he pull out.

This time, when he dropped Parvis, Parvis sank to the floor more slowly. He had the presence of mind to catch himself with his hands, at least. He wavered on hands and one knee for a moment before even that proved to be too much for him and he sagged to the ground, sprawled on his front and head tilted to one side. This time, dirty-white trickles of come joined the blood and spit drooling out of his mouth.

“That’s… just pathetic,” said Ridge, his disgust somewhat betrayed by the breathless note that still lingered in his voice, by the way the mess Parvis made sent a lazy coil of half-hearted warmth through his stomach and a spark of arousal to his dick. “That’s really pathetic. You should be _ashamed_ of yourself.”

It was, he reflected, a lot less fun degrading Parvis when all he did was lie there and whimper, empty-eyed and bleeding.

Sighing with frustration, Ridge tucked himself away, zipping and buttoning up his trousers again and stepping into the air to hover a foot off the ground. “Well, that was fun!” he said, looking down at Parvis’ prone form, one eyebrow raised. “Maybe not for you, but definitely for me. Might have to have a little repeat tomorrow morning, pet, but for now- oh! Before I go, food. How could I forget.”

Parvis’ usual dinner was a dog bowl of whatever faintly liquid substance Ridge had on hand, usually – soup, watery stew, porridge, just water if Ridge was feeling particularly annoyed. But, even as he raised his hands to pull something into being, he paused. A slow, unpleasant smile spread across his face.

A moment later, an apple dropped to the floor, bounced, and rolled to a stop in inch from Parvis’ face.

“Enjoy!” said Ridge, brightly, giggling to himself as he climbed easily through the gap in the ceiling that was the only way out of the room. “I’ll see you in the morning. Be a good pet, and eat your dinner, okay?” Laughing so hard he was almost wheezing, he plugged the gap with a piece of stone, and Parvis was once again alone in his cage.

The next morning, when Ridge broke through the ceiling of Parvis’ prison as usual, his teeth were back, exactly as planned. A bloodied apple, marked all over with crescent-moon nail imprints and dented from where it had apparently been thrown against a wall, sat in the corner of the room.

Parvis himself sat in the middle, good leg tucked close and damaged one stuck out in the awkward half-bend position that was the closest to comfort he could manage – fingers in his mouth as he touched his own teeth like he couldn’t quite believe they were actually there.

“Morning!” Ridge called, bright and too-loud, and watched the way Parvis flinched. He dragged his hands away from his mouth and hid them behind his back, face naughty-child guilty, eyes wide and scared as they always were in Ridge’s presence. “How are you? Hope you slept well- I mean, I don’t really care, actually, but apparently that’s a thing you’re supposed to say. For politeness’ sake, you know.”

Parvis licked his lips, ran a tongue over his teeth, nervously, and said nothing.

Frowning in a mockery of concern, Ridge took a step closer, and Parvis shrank back like a beaten dog. “What’s wrong?” he asked, voice sickly sweet, reaching out to run the back of one finger down Parvis’ cheek. “…You can speak,” he added, after a moment. “Thank fuck you waited, though. Maybe we’re finally getting somewhere!”

“My- my. Teeth,” whispered Parvis, voice hoarse, the words rusty and grating in the back of his throat. He flinched with each one, as if expecting a blow – Ridge had trained him well.

Ridge hummed acknowledgement, raising an eyebrow, and then a fist, just to giggle at the way Parvis flinched hard enough he almost curled into a ball. “What about your teeth?” he asked, sounding as bored as he could manage, eyeing his fingernails so he could glance at Parvis through his eyelashes. The confusion on the creature’s face was delicious, and it took everything he had not to laugh and give the game away.

“You-” Parvis paused, twitching, swallowing hard, and only continuing when it became evident Ridge wasn’t going to hit him for speaking. “You pulled- pulled them. Out…” He licked his lips nervously, one hand rubbing absently at the dull ache of his knee, an eternal throbbing at the edge of his awareness brought back to full force by the touch.

“I don’t think I did,” said Ridge, evenly, despite the fact he was practically dancing with joy internally. “You’ve got too many teeth for that, haven’t you, pet? You’re not _lying_ to me, are you?” Parvis twitched, whimpered, and Ridge raised his hand again just to see him cringe even further – before pausing in fake consideration. “Though… I mean, that’s not a bad idea, actually! I’m sure I’ve got some pliers around here. Lemme go have a look…”

The look of stricken horror on Parvis’ face was so utterly _delicious_ that Ridge couldn’t help but wish he could take a picture, somehow, so he could capture it forever.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **tw** mentions of torture / trauma / noncon, noncon sexual situations, dehumanisation, descriptions of injury, disordered thinking

To their shame, it took Kirin almost a full _year_ to work out what was going on. In fairness, it wasn't as though they didn't have plenty else to do – they were absorbed in their own studies, and then with the issue of their own fracturing, cracking shell of a body, and then with Lying, and then… well. This new universe was growing increasingly unstable, far faster than they'd hoped.

It wasn't _entirely_ unexpected, not with so many people so determined to stretch the very fabric of the source code as thin as it would go in the search for more knowledge, more power, more _weaponry_ , but still. 

They'd hoped to get more than a year or so out of this world before going through the effort of building another one. Especially given that building another one required _cooperating_ with _Ridge_ , something that sent a thrill of loathing down their spine every time they thought of it.

The other demigod had continued to cause problems for him, even after the initial Parvis and Strife fiasco. He had, at least, kept his hands off Parvis – or so Kirin thought. Parv and Ridge been around one another a few times, even going so far as to show up at Kirin’s own base and cause mischief with a few minor, well-placed explosives, but it was nothing _sinister_. Hardly obeying the letter of the law to not interfere, but at least the spirit.

They really should have known better. Everything was sinister when it came to Ridge.

But… there was still something _wrong_ , something nagging at them. It was such a small thing, they felt silly for even worrying about it, but- in the fraction of a second before Parvis respawned, sometimes, the code would insist he was _alive_.

The puzzle of it ate away at them, distracting them more and more the more they thought about it. Glitches were hardly uncommon, especially when the base code had been stretched as thin as this world's had, but something as major and persistent as this was cause for concern. Something on the magnitude of the _respawn_ going wrong, even in as small a way of this, was- well. _Worrying_ was putting it lightly.

It didn't even occur to him to that it might not be a glitch until he noticed it happening with Lalna.

Oddities were common around Lalna. He was a clone, after all, and several copies of one file of code running around the place was bound to cause some anomalies. Kirin was usually unbothered by them, minor as they were, but they were certainly inconvenient. They couldn't teleport to Lalna – not consistently, at least, not without risking blinking into being in a blaze of dirty-white light next to some confused copy who hadn't been expecting a visit. Occasionally, they had to deal with frantic messages from a snappish and overworked Xephos when the respawn spat out the wrong clone in response to a death.

And, they realised – in a sudden moment of sharp clarity when they felt Lalna's soul get caught in the respawn like a fly in a spider's web – the existence of the other clones left Lalna with a Schroedinger's cat of an existence when one of them was dead. As far as the base code was concerned, he was both dead, and alive.

"He _wouldn't_ ," they murmured to themself, potion forgotten and witchery cauldron bubbling over as it stood unattended and ignored. There was a ringing in their ears, a faint, abstract sort of horror at the idea that something as major as this could have happened without their knowing – that _Ridge_ could have done something as major as this without them knowing. "Surely… No? No. He's not smart enough for that."

Low opinion of Ridge's intelligence aside, though, Kirin could hardly deny he was _cunning_.

They realised the cauldron was bubbling over when hot, spoiled potion seeped into their shoes, spreading across the floor in a gelatinous puddle. Yelping, they jumped backwards, and put out the fire beneath the cauldron with a wave of their hand and a hastily, clumsily-applied frost spell that froze the entire thing solid in a block of ice.

The potion was ruined, of course – the ingredients were lost, and their cauldron was not going to be useable until it defrosted, or until they decided to risk a judicious application of lightning to melt it. "Well, that's… suboptimal," they announced, to no one in particular, rubbing at the curve of one glittering, crystalline horn and blinking in something between nerves and frustration. Seven pairs of eyelashes fluttered as seven neon-blue eyes closed momentarily. "We _really_ messed that one up, huh?"

Cleaning up the mess on the floor was an easy, almost mindless task as their thoughts continued to whirr. There was no way Ridge could have cloned Parvis… could he? He was friends with Xephos, Kirin remembered, stomach lurching. _Very_ good friends with Xephos. It probably wouldn't have been hard for him to visit Yoglabs, make a few changes – Kirin couldn't get in, not with the alarmingly stringent and advanced defences around the place and how adamantly that particular Xephos mistrusted him, but Ridge… Ridge certainly could.

"What have you _done_ , Ridge?" murmured Kirin, quietly, standing up and tossing the sopping rag he'd used to mop into the air to burn it with a thought. It was nothing more than floating ash before it had begun to even fall, invisible dust before it hit the floor. "What _have_ you _done_?"

As it turned out, Kirin got a chance to discover _exactly_ what Ridge had done just two weeks later. 

They were back to potion-brewing, cauldron long-defrosted after the previous accident, when their communicator beeped. Having learnt from their previous mistakes, Kirin studiously ignored it until the potion had finished brewing and was bubbling pleasantly, ready to be removed from the fire. 

It was easier to toss a scoop-full of cold water on the fire than try and manhandle a hot, heavy cauldron full of boiling liquid, so Kirin did so, watching the flaming netherrack beneath it sizzle out with a low, angry hiss. Only then did they turn back to the table behind them, scanning it briefly before they located their communicator amongst the varied ingredients, tools, and junk scattered across the place. 

They really needed to tidy up soon, they though, absently, as they picked up the communicator and flipped it open. The message was likely nothing important – Lying complaining about something again, or threatening them, Will asking yet another ill-advised favour, Parv begging for help with some piece of magic or another he was struggling with – but they'd still rather deal with it so they could get back to their work.

As it turned out, it _wasn't_ an important message, but it also wasn't any of those things. It was Ridge, sending what was apparently an announcement that he was off to the End for a couple of weeks, and was planning on killing the Enderdragon – _probably a couple of times, or something_ , said the message, with what Kirin rather thought was an unnecessary amount of smugness – so not to worry about any weird, booming noises, because they just meant that murder was happening.

Kirin seriously hoped he'd had the sense to send the message to everyone _other_ than Rythian, in that case, but they doubted it.

Huffing out a dismissive breath, they flipped the communicator shut again, and were about to set it down on the table when the thought that had been circling the back of their mind for two weeks resurfaced. _Parvis_ , it murmured, and they hesitated, lips parted in thoughtful consideration.

With Ridge out of the dimension for a while, his castle would be left… not unguarded, exactly, but certainly unattended. Ridge's defences were strong, but not particularly _clever_ , and it would be easy enough to get past them by simply teleporting in. He'd be gone long enough for a thorough check of the castle, long enough to look for any sign of _misbehaviour_.

Mind made up, Kirin set the communicator down on the table and straightened up. Rubbing at the curve of their horn again – an absent habit they'd picked up at some point during the steady disintegration of their shell – they reached out, careful and tentative, to brush against Ridge's mind, so quietly he wouldn't even notice. They didn't get much from it, but they did get the _impression_ of a location, dark and chittering and purple, yellowing stone reflecting a familiar dirty-white light back.

Ridge was already in the End, and his castle was empty. Smiling to themself, Kirin blinked – and vanished with a thought.

The castle was a silent, empty shell for the most part. In a small, gated pen above the blood altar, villagers chattered amongst themselves in high, irritating voices, and from one of the towers came the faint sounds of a goblin and a walker, trophies of war. Other than that, though, with Ridge and Paco gone and the machines turned off, it was eerily silent.

Beneath the the floor of the castle, though – soft enough to be near-inaudible even without the thick stone between it and the outside world – a figure barely recognisable as _human_ lay curled in the corner of a cage of basalt stone, whispering to itself.

“Parvis. _Parvis_.” Parvis’ voice was thin and thready, _rusty_ , each word grating dry and painful as he choked it up from the bottom of his lungs. His throat felt raw, between the lack of water and Ridge’s fist around it and Ridge’s cock shoving down it, but it was important he say this. It was important he remembered it. “Parvis.”

Ridge had told him he was leaving for a while – however long _a while_ was – told him to be good, and vanished. He’d left Parvis in his cage, hungry, feverish, in pain, lying in his own blood and filth. By now, Parvis knew better than to expect anything else.

The noise of stone on stone when the ceiling shifted and grated was enough to make him twitch, raise his head a little, an almost Pavlovian reaction of fear at this point. If he’d had more energy, if the world wasn’t so cloyingly hot and fuzzy and heavy around him and his limbs didn’t shake and his entire abdomen didn’t feel like a hollow ball of pain, then he’d have tried to haul himself onto all fours so he’d be ready.

As it was, he had to lay his head back down on the floor a moment later when even that movement proved too much effort.

He knew what was going to happen. Ridge was going to come down here, into this tiny, filthy room that had been Parvis' whole world for so long now it seemed like an eternity, and he was going to hurt Parvis. And then he was going to fuck him, because Ridge liked it when Parvis was hurt. It was predictable, a constant in his life that was no less awful because of it.

“Parvis,” he mumbled to himself, one last time, a foot descended through the hole. “ _Parvis_.” Whatever else Ridge had taken from him – and Ridge had taken _everything_ , all Parvis had to give and even more besides, until Parvis didn’t think he had anything else to lose – he couldn’t take that.

Kirin looked around the tiny room with wide eyes, nearly gagging when the stench of the place hit his nose. It had taken them a while to find the room, a couple of hours’ searching, and even then they’d nearly missed it. A loose section of flooring that had grated and wobbled when they’d accidentally stepped on it had been their only clue, and when they’d hauled it out, the space beneath it had been… whatever _this_ was.

The whole place smelled faintly of oily smoke, no doubt from the torch set into a bracket on the wall as the only source of light – but overwhelmingly, it smelled of _death_. Blood and sweat and human waste and… sex, they realised, stomach turning, all mingling together so thickly it felt like it was coating the inside of their throat every time they inhaled.

“Parvis?” they asked, quietly, trying not to breathe in too deeply. Through the shadows,there was a curled shape in the opposite corner of the room to them, one eye glittering in the darkness. It was the logical assumption to make, but it was hard to tell – the hair was wrong, the face was wrong, the _body_ was wrong. It was hard to even identify the thing as _human_.

They crossed the room slowly, a little hesitantly, wondering whether the person was going to react to his presence. The small curl of limbs didn’t move, though, just lay still and silent other than the slow rasp of its breathing, blinking so often.

The closer they got, the less Kirin could deny that this was _undoubtedly_ Parvis.

“Oh dear,” they said, looking down at him when they’d gotten close enough he was at their feet, scratching fingernails across their horn with a screech of claw on crystal. This close, the stench was overpowering, a disgusting smell drifting up from the grate a few feet from Parvis’ body that apparently served as a toilet. “Oh _dear_ , this… this really isn't good at all.” Their face darkened, lips set in a thin line and all seven eyes narrowed. “So much for the _spirit_ of the law. Ridge, you and I are going to be having _words_.”

Though Kirin's presence so far hadn't been enough to rouse Parvis to anything other than blinking, their anger was apparently enough to force him to action. As Kirin watched, still rubbing nervously at their horns, Parvis rolled himself onto his front and pushed himself, laboriously, onto hands and knees, and then onto just knees. 

He swayed a little, unbalanced – one knee wouldn't bend, wouldn't support his weight, stuck out to one side in an odd-half bend, and even that small amount of movement seemed to exhaust him – but managed to stay upright, blinking up at Kirin with glassy eyes.

Parvis didn’t recognise this person, whoever they were, but they _definitely_ weren’t Ridge. That had been obvious from the moment they said his name. Ridge never used his name, hadn’t since he’d first woken up, alone and cold and scared in the dark, called him either _you_ or _pet._

He wasn’t even sure if the person _was_ a person. They were tall, almost as tall as Ridge, taller if he counted the glittering antlers that extended from the top of their head. Curled, crystalline horns hung heavy on either side of a face half-blackened like it had been scorched, and when Parvis blinked, seven eyes blinked back at him.

Whoever they were, though, they looked angry. Parvis had gotten very good at recognising anger, in the past year. Anger was _dangerous_.

With Parvis on his knees, Kirin had an even clearer view of the ruin his body had become, and if they weren’t feeling sick from the smell then they _definitely_ were now. The way his jaw hung loose, half-open, showed several missing teeth, removed recently enough the gum was still tender and scabbed, bleeding in some places. One of the eyes blinking up at them was blood-blind, swollen, bruised. The bruises covered half his face, extended down his throat – heaviest and darkest around the collar cinched chafe-tight around his neck, complete with glittering silver tag, the only clean thing in the entire godforsaken room – and then onto his chest and _down_.

The cuts started there, too, some fresh and bright red and some healed all the way to ropey scars to form a haphazard collection of marks. There were less of them than the bruises, though. Ridge, it seemed, preferred using his fists and fingers to using weapons.

Kirin's examination of Parvis, though, was cut short when Parvis exhaled shakily and leant in to press his face against Kirin's crotch.

“Uh- um, no- don't do that-” said Kirin, faintly alarmed, reaching for Parvis to push him away and then stopping themself when they realised that, if they weren't careful, they'd push him over. Parvis began mouthing at them, trembling, and they bit their lip. “No, really, don't do that… that's, ah, that's not necessary. Honestly.”

Parvis hesitated, for a split second. The words made sense, in an abstract sort of way – Ridge talked to him all the time, after all, just didn’t like it when he talked back. But it wasn’t a _no_ , and he hadn’t been hit, and maybe this was a test and Ridge was waiting just around the corner to punish him, to _hurt_ him-

He kept mouthing at the soft cock beneath his lips, unable to help the quiet whimper that slipped past his lips.

Kirin had to admit, it did feel _nice_. Parvis’ mouth was a little dry, but it was warm and soft, pressed against the thick line of Kirin’s cock through the thin fabric of his trousers. Their instinct was to rock into it, to buck towards the pressure, tangle hands in Parvis’ patchy hair and _take_ what was being offered so sweetly and _willingly_. It _had_ been a while. Lying had been so busy, lately…

No, they reminded themself, firmly. They were human now. Humans had _morals_ , and this was _wrong._

Instead, they reached out, tentatively, and tugged Parvis away by his shoulders. They had to holding him upright when he swayed, almost slumping into the support. “Parvis? Can you- Parvis, look at me,” said Kirin, trying to catch his eye – but Parvis seemed too out of it to even know who was in front of him, let alone understand speech. When they touched a hand to his cheek, carefully, with the intention of tilting his face up, the skin beneath his fingers practically _burned_ with fever.

It took everything Kirin had to keep their face neutral. Lightning began crackling along the curves of their horns, flickering lines of dirty-white light arcing between their antlers.

“Okay,” they said, slowly, exhaling very deliberately in an attempt to calm themself as they settled Parvis backwards so he was leaning against the wall. He whimpered, damaged leg twitching, the cold stone almost too much to bear against the mess of weeping wounds that was his back – but Kirin hardly noticed, already fumbling with his sash. “Okay, let's- first things first, let's get you wearing something, and then- then we'll-”

They paused, half-way through shrugging off their robe, realising they had _no idea_ what they were going to do next. “…We'll do something, I guess,” they finished, rather lamely, tugging at the sleeves of their robe until it slid off entirely and they were left with just an off-white, loosely-woven undershirt covering their chest, bandages wound around their lower arms. 

The burnt-black skin that had started at their fingers peeked out the top of the wrappings, and brilliant blue lightning-scars had already crept up to their shoulders in thin, pulsing lines of glowing light. Sighing quietly at the spreading damage, they took a moment to touch the growing darkness, brows pulled together in a frown, before turning back to Parvis. “Come here. C'mon. Let's put this on you, hmm?”

Parvis didn't move, still leant against the wall and whimpering, eyes half-closed and jaw lax. He didn't have the energy for anything else, not when it had taken everything he had just to get on his knees and apparently _that_ hadn’t been what the person wanted. The heat clouding his mind was oppressive, a heavy blanket over his thoughts, and struggling through that to do anything more than whimper was more than he could manage.

Kirin sighed quietly, fretfully, eyeing the broken human before them with only an abstract idea as to what to do to make things _better_. “Okay,” they said, more for their own sake than anything else. “Okay, we're- going to have to help him with this, then.”

Getting the robe on Parvis was something of a trial. Several of his fingers on one hand were broken, and trying to get them through the sleeves of the robe without Parvis sobbing sharply every time they were nudged was near-impossible. He twitched at every touch, as if mere contact with Kirin’s skin caused him physical pain – and, given he was a watercolour painting of bruises from head to toe, maybe it did.

He started sobbing when the fabric touched his back, too, and Kirin had to grit their teeth when they saw the criss-crossing lines of half-healed whip lashes, undoubtedly infected. “It's okay,” they soothed, easing Parvis' other hand through the other sleeve of the robe, chewing on their lip and lying through their teeth. “It's- it's okay, I promise.”

Eventually, the robe was on, and Parvis was mostly quiet, slumped against the wall and half-curled away from Kirin, clutching at the robe with one shaking hand. The person had held him, had _hurt_ him, and though a very small part of him knew they had been trying to _help_ – the robe around his shoulders felt oddly _good_ , almost safe, despite the now-alien prickle of fabric against skin – the rest of him screamed terror.

Maybe Ridge had been right. Maybe he _had_ been given to Ridge, because he’d done bad, because he needed to be punished, because no one else wanted him. Maybe, all those times Ridge had told him he deserved this, he’d been telling the truth.

Kirin considered Parvis for a moment, wondering whether to rest a hand on their shoulder – and then thought better when moving one of their arms made Parvis flinch and glance towards their crotch again. “Won't do that, then,” they murmured, settling their hands in their lap given they couldn't move them or touch Parvis without eliciting a pain or fear reaction. “We won't do that, don't worry.”

They sat for that like a bit, Parvis trembling against the wall as the fire ate away at him from the inside out and Kirin just knelt there, awkwardly, wondering what to do. Parvis needed to be moved before Ridge came back, that much was obvious, but… guilty as it made him feel, Kirin didn't have the time to cope with something like Parvis right now. Not with everything else going on.

More importantly, they had no idea _how_. For all that Kirin had been practicing at being human for a long time, now, mortals were still something of a mystery.

“I mean… taking you to someone, that'd be the obvious solution, right?” they said, eventually – pausing when Parvis froze, stopped even breathing with a sharp whimper. “No! No, it's fine, I'm here to help you, I promise. I'm going to get you out of here, away from Ridge. Don't worry.”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.

Parvis flinched, almost violently, trying to pull away from Kirin even further. Weak and injured as he was, he barely managed it, shuffling back a few inches before ending up slumped against the wall and curled in on himself, panting. He was eyeing Kirin with his one good eye like Kirin had threatened to stab him.

_Away from Ridge_. The concept was almost too good to be true, and also utterly terrifying in its enormity. This person didn’t _understand_. Ridge hurt him, yes, but… there was _nothing else_. There was only Ridge, only this room, only the promise of more pain to come. _Away from Ridge_ , after an eternity in a tiny, filthy, airless room, was almost impossible for Parvis to grasp.

They also didn’t understand, evidently, that _away from Ridge_ was not something that would last. Ridge would find him. And then Ridge would hurt him, even worse than before, for daring to dream that there was anything other than this room, and Ridge, and _pain_.

“What- what did I-?” said Kirin, bewildered, reaching out for Parvis – and finally losing their temper a little when Parvis flinched away with a whimper, evidently terrified but still glaring. “Come on, Parvis,” they tried again, reaching for him a second time. “I’m trying to-”

Parvis – feverish and terrified and confused, with no other form of agency at his disposal – bit them.

It wasn’t a hard bite – their jaw ached, and they were missing teeth, and the few they still had were loose and painful. But, unlike Ridge, Kirin’s skin _gave_ beneath their teeth, bent and dented like real, human skin instead of the porcelain steel that Ridge wore for a shell. He didn’t manage to draw blood, but something about the realness of it, the _human_ -ness, felt _good_.

Half a second later, when Kirin yanked their hand back with a sharp hiss of discomfort, Parvis realised what he’d done and nearly blacked out from sheer, animal terror.

“…Okay, that’s it,” said Kirin, voice still mild but with an undeniable note of power and command to it. There were uneven teeth-marks on three of their fingers, shallow but still unpleasant, and an impatient sort of anger had started to simmer in their gut – at Ridge, at Parvis, at this whole damn situation. They didn’t have _time_ for this right now. “Right. I’m taking you to Strife. He’ll know what to do with you, he’s already got one Parvis to look after. Two shouldn’t be too much different.”

They reached out again – faster this time, ignoring the way Parvis was hyperventilating, the increasingly loud noises of distress he made as their hand got closer – clasped careful fingers around his wrist, and vanished with him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **tw** mentions of torture / trauma / noncon, dehumanisation, violence, descriptions of injury, disordered thinking

_Taking you to Strife_ , as it turned out, involved teleporting them both to Strife Solutions Tower, ringing the doorbell, and then leaving Parvis on his knees on the front step as Kirin teleported away.

It took Parvis precisely two seconds to crumple to the ground without Kirin or a wall to hold him up. He did manage to at least control the fall, getting arms under him briefly before he slumped to the floor and curled in on himself, shivering. Kirin’s robe puddled around him, far too large, the feeling of fabric against his skin still so _strange_ , covering almost all of him other than the patchy shock of dark hair atop his head.

Wherever he was, now, it wasn’t the room – it was cold, cold and _too bright_. His eyes hurt, his head hurt, and, despite the chill biting through even the weight of Kirin’s robe, he felt so hot and fuzzy he could hardly form a thought. It was like a fog over him, dulling even the pain and the fear beneath its oppressive weight.

Too terrified and exhausted and overwhelmed to move, he just lay there, curled up in Kirin’s robes and breathing quietly through the heat burning him up from the inside.

Strife, unsurprisingly, was the one to answer the door. “Hello?” he said, hauling it open and squinting out into the mid-afternoon sunshine. “Strife of Strife Solutions, what can I-” He paused, doing a double-take when there was no expectant face waiting for a sales pitch. “Uh… hello?”

The crumpled heap of robes and human limbs that was Parvis, left on the doorstep, whimpered. Strife jumped.

“I- what the _hell_?” he muttered, voice laced with suspicion as he reached for the atomic disassembler sat permanently next to the door in case of any dodgy customers – largely the Sirs, if he was being honest, given the rather unpleasant threats they'd tossed around last time they had come knocking. “…Hello?”

Parvis whimpered again, a thin whine in the back of his throat, and twitched. The words didn’t even make any sense, just noises in his ringing ears. 

Strife seemed to think better of the disassembler in the light of the frankly pathetic noise, and the fact that whatever it was under the fabric hadn’t attacked him yet. “What-” he started, leaning in closer – and realised could see _skin_ , more blue-purple than tan but skin nonetheless. His stomach plummeted, eyes widening in alarm. “Oh jeez. That’s- that’s a _person_ , uh, okay. Right. Are you-" he asked, slowly, drawing his hand back without closing fingers around the hilt of the weapon, still staring at the figure on the floor. "Are you _okay_?"

It was a stupid thing to ask, and he kicked himself mentally as soon as he asked it. No okay human made the kind of noises this one did, thin and thready and painfully breathless. Crouching down, he rested hands on his knees and slowly eased himself into a kneeling position on the floor, exhaling through the way his left leg protested loudly. “I mean- obviously you're not okay, but who- can I help you?”

This close, it was easy enough to recognise the robes as belonging to Kirin. But Kirin was a solid mountain of a person, big and tall and broad-shouldered, and whoever was wearing the robes was a scrap of a human being. Besides, the dark fluff of hair poking out the top of the robes – the only thing visible apart from pale, scarred hands – was something of a giveaway that the person before him wasn't the demigod in question. “How did you get that-?”

He'd reached out to touch the heap, but the moment he brushed fingers against what he assumed was the person's shoulder they flinched, violently. “Oh, jeez, I didn't- Okay, no touching, that's fine. That's fine. I can do the no touching thing.”

The damage was already done, though. The person was shifting, gasping, hauling themself onto hands and knees as the robe slipped and slid around them. One leg stuck out strangely, the unnatural angle of it enough to turn Strife’s stomach, and-

His observations were cut short when the person shuffled forward with an odd sort of lurch and, whimpering quietly, pressed what felt like an open mouth against the front of Strife’s slacks.

“What the fuck-” he snarled, horrified, rearing backwards and pushing a hand between himself and the person’s face as he moved away as quickly as he could on his knees. The touch, brief as it was, had sent a sharp jolt of nausea through him, a crawling uncleanness that itched on his skin. “Ohh boy, okay, _no_ , that is _not_ -”

The words died in his throat when the person finally raised their head, blinking silently at him as their lips opened and closed soundlessly..

“…P- _Parv_ -?!” he managed, in shock, rearing back with wide eyes. The face was a mess – ruined, bruised and bloody and _broken_ , enough to make Strife feel sick to his stomach with the damage – but those eyes… those _eyes_ , dark and glittering. There was no mistaking that, even with one half-blind with blood. “But you-”

He glanced back behind him, down the corridor towards the room where he'd been with Parv no more than a few minutes ago, working on taking one of his machines apart whilst the mage babbled on about something-or-another to do with Martyn. “Parv!” he called, voice shaking a little despite his best attempts to keep it steady. “Uh- hey, Parv, could you- I think you should see this.”

Footsteps sounded from somewhere within the tower, and he exhaled unevenly, turning back to the person in front of him. This Parvis had, at least, stopped trying to mouth at Strife's crotch, and was instead looking at him wide-eyed and terrified, more animal than human.

“It’s… it’s okay,” said Strife, uncertainly, unsure whether he was trying to reassure himself or Parvis. His instinct was to reach out to Parvis, to _hold_ him, protect him, but he remembered how Parvis had flinched before and kept his hands to himself. “It’s okay, I’m- I’m here, I’m gonna look after you, P- Parvis. I promise. I- hey. What’s- what’s that around your neck?” 

Unable to help himself, he reached forward, and Parvis twitched, blinked. His exertions seem to have tired him out, though, and he didn’t try to push forward or pull away, just swayed on hands and one knee as Strife touched the band of leather around his throat.

Strife knew what it was as soon as his fingers made contact with the front of it, and he felt the smooth cool of a metal D-ring and a dog tag against his skin. “Sonnuva-” he muttered, leaning forward with both hands to touch the back of Parvis’ neck. 

Parvis flinched, made a sharp noise of distressed pain, but Strife shushed him gently, kept touching until had found what he was looking for – a buckle.

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he soothed, hating that he sounded like he was calming a spooked horse as he slowly undid the buckle, trying to ignore Parvis’ quiet sobbing. The reason for it became clear as he pulled the collar away, and it almost _peeled_ off the skin, stuck to it by a thin layer of blood and fluid where it had been done up too tight and pulled on too hard. It had bitten into the skin around Parvis’ throat, leaving angry, weeping marks there, and Strife ground his teeth in disgust as he stared down at the revolting thing.

His stomach turned even further when he saw what was written on the dog tag. Unfortunately, that was the moment Parv chose to arrive at the front door – with Strife, on his knees, clutching a collar, in front of a beaten, broken shell of a person wearing Parv’s face.

“What… what is this, Strifey?” asked Parv, a dangerous sort of forced cheer in his voice. “Is this a joke? It had better be a joke.” The smile on his face was fixed, more a baring of teeth than anything else, and the hairs on the back of Strife’s arms prickled.

Parvis, though, despite his continued trembling, _stared_ at Parv in something like wonder. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away.

“Not a joke,” said Strife, grimly. “ _Ridge_.” He held out the scrap of leather he’d taken from around Parvis’ neck out, let Parvis take it from him and hold it up to his face to study it. To read the letters engraved into the dog tag, in fine cursive handwriting, that simply said, _If found, please return to Ridgedog._ There was no other name on the tag, nothing, just a simple declaration of ownership.

For a long moment, Parv was silent, staring between the collar in his hand and the man hunched and on all fours on the floor.

“I’m going to kill him,” he said, eventually, slow and bright and sickly-sweet. “I’m going to find Ridge, and I’m going to kill him, and I’m going to make it hurt _so much_. I’m going to rip every little soft, squishy thing inside of him _out_ of him, and I’m going to feed it to my altar, one at a time.” The terrifying, forced smile on his face was slipping, slowly, into something darker – something sick and horrified and _furious_. “And then I’m going to heal him, and do it all over again, and again, _and again_ -”

“Parv!” snapped Strife, wincing when it made Parvis flinch. “Look. _Look_ , I am-” He bit down on the words _just as angry as you_ – because how could he be, this wasn’t _him_ , he wasn’t the one looking down at his own emaciated, beaten face and thinking _someone did that to me_. “-entirely on board with the idea of murdering Ridge,” he settled on, after a moment. “But- but Parvis is the priority right now. Don’t you think?” he added, almost pleadingly – very aware of just how reckless Parv could be when he was like this, dark and focused and bristling with cold fury.

Slowly, slowly, the brilliant anger Parv had drawn around him like a shroud seeped away, and his shoulders slumped. “You’re right, Strifey,” he conceded, looking down at Parvis, frowning. “Just this once, mind! But you’re right. We should- we should clean him up, first, all that… _stuff_ can’t be very nice to have on his skin. I know _I_ wouldn’t like it.”

Strife nodded, quietly relieved that Parv had backed down so easily. “The spare room has a walk-in shower, we can take him up there.” Easing himself up into a crouch, wincing when his knee clicked, he shuffled closer to Parvis. He reached out a hand, exhaling gratefully when Parvis twitched a little but didn’t outright flinch or lash out. “I’m- I’m going to pick you up, now, Parvis, okay?”

He had no idea if this Parvis recognised his own name, could speak, could even _understand_ – but it felt better this way, actually _telling_ him things, instead of treating a human being like a dumb animal. 

Talking, as it turned out, did not stop Parvis panicking. 

Nor did it stop him crying out in pain wherever Strife tried to put his hands to lift him, no matter how careful Strife was. Every inch of Parvis’ body seemed to be damaged in some way, cuts and bruises across what skin was visible like a well-used canvas, more bones broken than Strife thought a human could suffer without passing out. 

Eventually, he just had to steel himself, picking Parvis up in a bridal carry. He nearly dropped him in shock when he realised just how _light_ Parvis was. The robes had hidden it, a little, but with Parvis in his arms, light as a feather and feeling as fragile as one too, the only word Strife could think of to describe it was _emaciated_. 

There was nothing Strife could do, though, other than begin to walk, despite the broken noises Parvis made in the back of his throat and his weak attempts to claw at Strife’s chest and throat.

It took him and Parv a long time to get Parvis up a flight of stairs and into the walk-in shower of the guest bedroom next to Strife and Parv’s room. Once they were up there, it seemed like it took an age to get him _clean_.

Taking the robe off turned out to be an impossibility, Parvis whimpering and flinching with the way it stuck to their back and knocked their broken fingers. Eventually, Strife fished some scissors out of a bedside table and just cut it off, hacking through the thick fabric with a single-minded determination and a quiet curse at Kirin for putting the damn thing on in the first place. If it wouldn’t come off easily, it probably hadn’t been painless going on, either. 

The minute he saw the blade, Parvis’ attempts to press his face into Strife’s crotch were back, more insistent than ever despite Strife’s firm, careful hand against his cheek keeping him away. It wasn’t pliers, _thank god_ it wasn’t pliers – but it was still metal, flashing in the light, so close to his skin, and maybe if he made them feel good, they wouldn’t hurt him-

Parv left the room, after that, barely managing a faint, “I- I’ve just got to-” as he stumbled out the door.

Even after cutting the robe off, the back of it wouldn’t come loose, stuck to Parvis’ back with a mixture of blood and pus and filth that Strife didn’t dare try to pull it free of. In the end, Strife guided him into the walk-in shower with it still attached, praying the warm water would help free it.

The sheer amount of _filth_ that came off Parvis when Strife turned the shower head – low pressure, carefully lukewarm – on him was unbelievable. The water ran copper-brown, dried blood and shit and god knows what else sluicing away under the clear water and swirling down the drain.

Parvis flinched at the first touch of water, unsurprisingly, and then resign himself to it. The warmth was easing the chill, a little, despite doing nothing to help the heavy fog in his head, and it was hardly like he could run. Water was better than scissors, a _lot_ better than being hurt or having a cock shoved into him. He could deal with water.

Strife padded around him barefoot, with his trousers rolled up to his knees and still getting spattered with drops of water, shower hose in hand. Parvis just knelt there still and slumped and docile, dead-eyed. It was a little off-putting, honestly, but it at least made Strife’s job easier.

“There we go,” he murmured, when the water began to run almost-clear again and the fabric of Kirin’s robe peeled more easily from the ruined skin of Parvis’ back. Parvis still whimpered, twitched – but the pain was almost a _good_ pain, clean, unlike so many other agonies he had been exposed to over the past year. The water on his back stung, but only dully, through the haze of fever, and it felt good to be free the filth that usually clung to him.

When Parvis’ back was entirely exposed, though, Strife felt like someone had punched him in the gut. It was a _mess_ , utterly ruined, so thoroughly scarred and damaged that Strife thought he might be sick. Like this, it was easy, too, to see exactly how thin Parvis was, the sharp jut of his hips and ribs looking like they might actually break through the bruised skin stretched taut over them.

If he’d been in any doubt as to _who,_ exactly, had taken Parvis, he wasn’t any more. There was a cursive, flowery _R_ signed into Parvis’ lower back, just at the curve of his ass where it what little body fat he still had was soft enough to gouge deep without hitting bone. But that wasn’t the worst part, not for Strife.

It took a moment for Strife to realise that the marks across Parvis’ back were not just slashes and gouges, not knife wounds like the other cuts scattered across his body. They were whip marks – straight, deep lines, shallower at the edges, crossing his back side-to-side and overlapping with how _many_ of them there were.

Strife rocked back onto his heels, sucking in a sharp breath as a memory sparked sharply somewhere in the back of his mind. “Oh. Oh, boy.”

Another sparked, and another, and another- until there were so many of them clamouring for attention it sounded like _screams_. It took a moment for him to remember to _breathe_ , force them down until reality reasserted itself. “Not now. _Not now_. Pull it together, Strife,” he growled to himself, guilt aching in the pit of his stomach as Parvis flinched. “Not- not you,” he murmured, as gently as he could manage, focusing on keeping his breathing even.

Turning the shower pressure even lower, he held the shower head over Parvis’ back, trickling warmish water over skin so flayed it was hardly even there. It _burned_ , and Parvis started rocking, wrapping arms around his bony torso and swaying back and forth as he sobbed.

“Sorry,” said Strife, dragging a hand through his hair – still fighting back echoes of a square of houses, a post hammered into the ground, the smell of death drifting through the air- He stamped down on the memory, fiercely, and turned back to Parvis, pulling the water away. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Parvis, but- we gotta do this. I’m sorry.”

“Uh-” Parv had returned, looking a little grey-faced but also faintly ashamed, one arm outstretched. There was a healing potion in his fist, a little, sparkling pink bottle that Strife practically _snatched_ from him, and clothes under his other arm. “H- here! I found it in my pocket. Thought it might be useful.”

Strife acknowledged his forced cheer with a grunt, already uncorking the potion and holding it out to Parvis. “Drink this,” he said – and, when Parvis just stared at him, blank and empty-eyed, held it a bit closer. “Hey, here, drink-”

Parvis tilted his head back, and opened his mouth. 

Swallowing, hard, Strife tipped the potion into his mouth. For the hundredth time that afternoon, he felt a little sick – this time at the way Parvis wrapped his lips around the bottle, the way his throat moved steady and sinuous as he swallowed.

Next to him, Parv twitched, a muscle tightening in his jaw. He didn’t run again, though. Instead, he drew in a deep breath, and said, “Okay. Okay! I’m gonna help.’Cos- ‘cos I’m the best at helping. Parvy to the rescue. Tell me how to help.”

“Go get a flannel, take your shoes off, roll your trousers up, and just- help me get him clean,” Strife said, voice rough and almost exhausted. The physical labour was hardly demanding, but it made him _ache_ ever time he found a new injury, a new abuse, and the strain of it was beginning to wear him down. He felt like someone had taken a wire scrubber to his skull, like there was a weight pressing down on him, grinding him into fine powder as he struggled to keep a lid on the horror and anger and _memories_ bubbling inside of him.

For once, Parv did as he was told without an argument, setting the clothes down on the floor just outside the shower, fetching a flannel, and stepping into the shower to join Strife.

Between them, they cleaned the as much of the rest of Parvis as they could, with the shower head and a soft flannel as the healing potion worked to knit together what it could. Fingers straightened a little, minor cuts vanished and major ones scabbed over, bruises faded away into pinkish skin – and Parvis sobbed when Strife moved to clean his hips and between his legs, face twisted as he braced for pain.

Parv left the room again in silence, shaking and grey-faced, to wait in the bedroom. Strife let him go, and turned back to Parvis, alone, with a heavy heart.

The healing potion didn’t touch the leg, didn’t touch the eye, didn’t do anything to fade the scars. But it brought back a few expanses of untouched skin, scabbed his back over enough that Strife felt safe to put clothing over it – and, most importantly, brought some of the light back to Parvis’ eyes, some of the consciousness.

Whatever potion they’d given him had helped to clear relentless heat inside him a little, ease it back until he was merely too-warm rather than burning. His thoughts cleared, slowly but surely – not the room, not _his_ room, a bathroom, water, a man he recognised, a man with _his face_ , and no one was hurting him. It was overwhelming, too much to take in and process and respond to, so he simply sat there and shivered on the floor of the shower, letting the hands touch him.

When Strife gently eased him out of the shower, dried him off with a soft pat-down with a towel and tugged a shirt over his head, he made a faint effort to actually _help_ instead of sitting there and swaying like a ragdoll. He lifted his own arms a little when Strife touched his wrist, raised his head so it could slip through the neck hole, and, when the fabric was finally settled, tugged absently at the hem of it in faint surprise. It was softer than the cloth before, much softer, and smelled faintly of copper and aftershave. The combination was oddly… comforting, though he couldn’t quite work out why.

The shirt hung from his thin shoulders like he was practically a skeleton, looking ridiculously oversized despite it being one of Parv’s. For the millionth time that evening, Strife felt hot anger at Ridge flooding through his veins.

Putting the boxers and jogging bottoms on was harder, and not just because of his crooked leg. It resulted in more whimpering, more flinching away every time Strife’s hands went near the fork of his legs. 

The shower and the healing potion had brought Parvis back to himself a little – he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a shower, had water near him in anything other than a dog bowl – and, most importantly, this man hadn’t hit him yet. He had no way to articulate that, though, no words unless he was given permission. All he had was whimpering, and flinching, and a terrifyingly bright seed of hope blooming in his chest every time he twitched and this man,didn’t hit him.

Parv was waiting for them when they came out of the bathroom, Parvis fully-dressed this time but still scooped up into Strife’s arms in a bridal carry. Strife had tried to get him to walk, but attempts to help Parvis onto his feet had been met with bitten-off noises of distress, and pain when his bad leg was moved, so he’d stopped. 

He deposited Parvis on the bed, gently, and was stepping sharply away from Parvis’ half-hearted attempt to nuzzle at his crotch – a now-expected response, as depressing as acknowledging that was – when Parv spoke. “He- should probably eat. I want to get him something to eat.”

“Nothing too rich,” said Strife, exhaustedly. His eyes darted between Parv and Parvis, pitching his voice low enough that hopefully Parvis wouldn’t hear. “You- he’ll be sick if he has meat, or cake, or anything like that.” That was a lesson Strife had learned the hard way, a long time ago, in another life on another planet. “Just get him some… do we have any mooshroom stew left?”

Parv couldn’t keep his eyes off Parvis, either, not even bothering to pretend to look at Strife whilst he was speaking. “I think so, yeah.” He couldn’t help but stare – this person, this _him_ , was just… sat there, on the bed. The t-shirt hung off his practically skeletal form like a blanket, still and silent and hunched as tugged at the hem of it and breathed in short hitches. It was _wrong_ , so wrong, went against everything he was and everything he knew about himself – but still, it _was him_. “There’s probably some, like, in the freezer or something. You’ve got everything in that freezer.”

“Okay, right, then go get that and- whatever potions of healing you’ve got stashed away in that freakin’ blood magic room of yours, and get your ass back here as soon as you can.” Parv hesitated, still staring at Parvis. “ _Now_ , Parv!” snapped Strife – wincing when he saw Parvis flinch over on the bed, ducking his head, hands flying up to half-cover it on instinct. 

“…Please,” he added, quieter, calming himself. He took a deep breath, smoothed hands down the front of his damp shirt, exhaling the crawling fear that had settled over his shoulders so slowly it had been almost unnoticeable. He was on Minecraftia, now. He was safe. Someone else needed his help, and he had to hold it together. “Please, Parv, just- go get the food.”

Parv looked at him askance, frowning. He wanted to ask questions, the words bubbling up in his throat – but one of Strife’s hands was a white-knuckled fist at his side, and Parvis looked so _small_ on the bed, and they words died where they sat. “Yeah,” he agreed, instead, unusually quiet. “Yeah, sure- Parvy to the rescue, and stuff.”

He left the room without another word, tossing a small, hopeful smile in Strife’s direction before disappearing round the doorframe.

As soon as he was gone, Strife grabbed a chair from the corner of the room, tugging it over next to the bed and settling down in it. He was close enough that Parvis could touch him, if he wanted, but far away he enough he didn’t come across as threatening – he _hoped_.

“…Parvis?” he asked, quietly, noting the way Parvis’ eyes were downturned but his head still twitched with every movement Strife made. He made sure to keep his hands in plain sight, clasped in his lap, and to stay as still as he could manage when his chest _ached_ like there was something lodged in it. “Do you… do you know who I am?”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Parvis nodded. His thin shoulders were hunched almost up to his ears, trembling, hands fisted white-knuckled around the hem of his shirt. Strife was almost worried the bone was going to tear through the paper-thin skin with how hard he was clutching it.

“You- you can speak,” tried Strife, hopefully, before wincing at how much the words that had just come out of his mouth sounded like a command. “Uh, if you want, I mean. You don’t have to.”

Parvis raised his head and _stared_ , mouth half-open. 

His jaw worked for a second, minute little twitches, lips shaping around soundless nonsense – and then, in a voice like nails and gravels and rusted cogs, managed a shaking, “Y- yes.” He flinched almost immediately, hunching in on himself and bringing a hand up to curl protectively over the back of his skull. 

When the expected blow never came, he blinked, and peered up at Strife through his eyelashes. “Yes,” he tried again, voice still raw from lack of use, the words scraping their way out like stones, but little stronger. “Parvis,” he added, because he could, because it seemed important, because he wanted this man to _know_.

Strife exhaled, slowly, unclasping his hands to dig the nails of one into his thigh to keep the tight, boiling anger rising up in him from showing on his face or in his voice. “Good,” he said, instead, a little shocked at how _raw_ his voice sounded. “That’s… that’s good. Um, I’m- I’m not Parvis, though. You’re Parvis, and the other guy, the one who just left, he’s Parvis too. You’re, uh.”

He paused, realising he had no actual idea _what_ the two Parvises were. “I _think_ you’re clones,” he said, a little hesitantly, on the basis that was really the only option – barring potty-mouthed wizardry gone horribly wrong. “Probably? But- but the important thing is- you’re safe, here. I’m- we’re not going to hurt you, I promise. I _promise_. We’re going to look after you, help you… help you get better.”

“Strife,” offered Parvis, quietly, like it was a revelation – which, in some ways, it was. When he wasn’t hit, again, he dared to look up from the bedsheets at Strife’s face, tentative and cautious. “You- you’re Will. Strife.”

There were so many other things he wanted to say, memories lingering bright and hazy at the corners of his mind – things he’d clung to, in the beginning, before everything had slipped away into the eternal half-light of his tiny room. But the words stuck in his throat, sharp and jagged, and it was all he could do to _breathe_.

They were the most words he’d said in over a year, and it left him a little light-headed with the dizzying freedom of _not being hit_ for them.

Swallowing hard, Strife nodded. The fingernails dug in harder. “Yeah, that’s- that’s me,” he said, voice rough. “That’s me.” 

It hit him, then, that if this Parvis knew him, they had history together. They had spent _time_ together. This was not just some strange, blank canvas that wore Parv’s face, but _actually him_ , a second version of the man he loved, and he… really wasn’t sure how he felt about that, other than that something had wrenched painfully in his chest the moment he’d realised. It felt a little like being stabbed. “Hey, Parvis. It’s, uh. Been a while.”

For a long, frozen second, Parvis just _stared_ at him, silent and shivering and still so awfully _broken_ despite the healing potion. Then he moved, abruptly enough that _Strife_ almost flinched – shifting across the bed with a sharp gasp to practically collapse against Strife, fisting hands in the front of Strife’s shirt and burying his face in Strife’s shoulder, trembling.

“Why?” whispered Parvis, tongue darting out to lick at his lips, eyes wide and confused and – somewhere, underneath the pain and the fear and the glittering tears – _hurt_. The word tore at his throat like a knife. “Why, why- _why_ did- You- we- were _friends_. Why didn’t-” He broke off, choking on a sob, trying to swallow it down and failing entirely.

There was no need to ask what he meant.

Strife had no answer to that – no words to make things better, not even any apologies. He sat there, still and silent, and let Parvis cling to him, let Parvis sob, soaking his shirt through with tears until there were no tears left, and tried not to choke on the strangling guilt of it all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **tw** abuse, blood, violence, manipulation, mentions of torture / noncon, noncon sexual situations, disordered thinking, disordered eating, dehumanisation

“I'm…” Parvis paused in the doorway to the kitchen of Strife Solutions Tower, hand curled white-knuckled around the cane Strife had given him over two weeks ago now. “I'm- can. Can I- please.”

Strife turned almost immediately at the quiet voice, carefully schooling his expression into one of pleasant neutrality – one of the first lessons he'd learnt was that Parvis struggled with other people displaying strong emotions. Surprise, anger, excitement, sometimes even happiness, were difficult for him. It was easier for Strife to keep his face mild and friendly than deal with the inevitable panic that happened if he didn’t.

“Parvis!” he said, trying to put a bit of warmth into his voice despite the exhaustion gathering like a dark cloud at the base of his skull. He'd not even had a chance to make coffee this morning, yet. “Good morning. Do you- d’you want breakfast?”

“ _Please_ ,” said Parvis, and then paused, licking his lips nervously as the pleading note in his voice turned his stomach. “I- yes, please,” he said, again, softer and less desperate this time.

It was hard, fighting the urge to beg for every little thing, to whisper _please please_ when offered anything, to get on his knees by way of a thank you when Strife gave it to him. It was _so_ hard, enough that it nearly reduced him to tears every time he did it, but… it got a little easier, every time he asked and Strife did that peculiar, tight half-smile of his and gave whatever Parvis had asked for over without a fuss.

Nodding, Strife eyed him with mild concern, and then turned back to the counter. To his left, the coffee machine was already humming, and there was nothing he could do to speed it up, so he headed over to the fridge to find some milk to warm up for Parvis, and some eggs.

There still wasn't much Parvis could keep down without throwing it up again, or feeling queasy for the rest of the day – and the reaction Strife had gotten when he'd suggested porridge a few days ago had been close to outright panic. But warm milk was fine, and soft, wet scrambled eggs were fine too, so that was Parvis' breakfast.

The progress they'd made in three and a half weeks was… well. Strife wasn't willing to stretch to _remarkable_ , or perhaps even particularly _good_ , but it was something – and something was better than nothing. Two weeks of daily healing potions had fixed the more fixable of Parvis' injuries – the cuts were gone, healed away to thin scars, as were all other than the most stubborn of the bruises. Even his cracked ribs seemed healed sufficiently that they didn't bother him if he was careful. 

There was nothing the healing potions could do about the eye, apparently. The blood had cleared out of it, but something else was evidently wrong, because Parvis was still blind on that side. Strife had to be oh-so-careful with too-fast movements in his peripheral vision, yet another lesson he’d learnt the hard way. 

The damaged leg had healed long before Parvis had reached them, so there was nothing Strife could do for that short of surgery – and there was no way in _hell_ he was going to suggest anything off the sort to Parvis right now. So Strife had found an adjustable brace for the leg to keep it from getting knocked, and a cane, dug out the back of a cupboard and accompanied by a sharp _shut your face_ when Parv dared to ask why Strife had them in the first place.

There wasn’t anything he could do about the eye thing, either, other than surgery, but that was- well. It wasn't fine, exactly, but Parvis could still _see_ , at least, and that was the main thing.

The coffee machine beeped, twice, to let Strife know the coffee was done. Parvis, walking slowly and unsteadily – between the leg, the malnutrition, and the apparent muscle atrophy, it was a miracle he was walking at all in Strife’s opinion – across the kitchen towards the table in the middle, flinched badly enough he nearly fell over.

Strife sighed, very quietly, and grabbed a large mug from one of the cupboards.

“Hey, Strife!” called Parv, loudly, a minute later, when Strife had already downed his first cup of black coffee and was working on a second as Parvis' mug of milk heated on the hob. He burst into the kitchen, skidding a little on the tiles in his socked feet, and caught himself on the door frame. “Hey, me.”

The temptation to scowl at Parv was strong, but Strife fought against it – and was glad he did when he saw Parvis, now seated at the table, raise a tentative hand and wiggle his fingers at Parv. He didn't smile, quite, but there was a tugging at the corners of his lips and a softening at the corner of his eyes that was something close.

_He isn't you_ , Strife reminded himself, over and over, as he pulled the pan of milk off the hob and tipped it carefully into a chipped mug. _He isn't you, he’s different, and it isn't a personal affront that he likes Parv more than you. He_ isn’t you.

It made sense, really, that Parvis would be more comfortable around someone that wore the same face as him, answered to the same name as him, had the same history as him. Parv was loud and brash and excitable, sure – though he did try and control himself around Parvis, much to Strife's relief – but Parv seemed to take an obscure sort of comfort in that. As if how much space his other self took up, how much noise he made, was a relief.

He saw himself in Parv, Strife assumed, and saw what he could _become_.

“Breakfast,” Strife said, a few feet away from Parvis, bowl of soft scrambled eggs in one hand and glass of warm milk in another. As expected, Parvis jumped in his seat, head swinging round so Strife was no longer on his blind side.

Strife bit the inside of his cheek as he set the plate and mug down on the table in front of Parvis. “There you go,” he said, voice a little gruff, peripherally aware of Parv dashing about behind him – no doubt stealing his coffee and trying to find where Strife had stashed the biscuits Lomadia had brought on her last visit round. “Hope it's- hope it tastes good.”

Parvis eyed him, expression unreadable but undeniably cautious, and nodded. His mouth moved around the words _thank you_ , but no sound came out. Lips tightening briefly in something like distress, he ducked his head and started picking at his eggs with his fingers.

Briefly, Strife thought about offering him a fork – and then remembered the fifteen previous mornings he'd offered Parvis an implement with his breakfast, and the fifteen previous mornings it had been ignored. Scrubbing a hand across his face, he turned and trudged away to the table, back over to the counter.

Once there, he discovered that Parv had, indeed, stolen his coffee.

“ _Parv_ ,” he groaned, picking up the now-empty mug to swirl the grainy dregs around in the bottom of it and stare at them with a hollow sort of disappointment. “Parv, _why_.”

“Because you always make the best coffee,” said Parv, sweetly, as if it were obvious. He snuck up behind Strife to drape arms over his shoulders, resting his chin on Strife’s shoulder and murmuring in his ear. “And things always taste better when they’re stolen, Strifey.”

Strife shivered at the touch of Parv's breath on his ear, felt his eyes slip half-closed. In his peripheral vision, he could see Parvis, determinedly working on his eggs with thumb and forefinger. “Parv…” he warned, quietly, voice little more than a low groan.

“Even kisses, Strifey,” Parv added, words barely audible as he pressed dry, soft lips against the sensitive skin just behind Strife’s ear. “ _Especially_ kisses.”

It was an effort not to groan properly when Parv pulled away, the warmth against his back vanishing and lips no longer pressed a hair's breadth from his ear. After the state Parvis had been in when he'd arrived, after the- _things_ he'd tried to do, both Strife and Parv had agreed it was for the best if they were careful around him. They’d decided to keep things toned down, platonic.

Just because they'd agreed, though, didn't make it easy.

It definitely wasn't easy, especially when the past few nights had been interrupted near-hourly with noises from Parvis' room – they'd put him next to theirs, for safety purposes. Strife ached to have Parv underneath him again, get his mouth on Parv's skin, his hands in Parv's hair… but that was hard, right now. It was difficult to maintain any degree of arousal when Parvis started screaming a room over, screaming and begging _no no no_ with more terror than Strife had thought a human voice could hold.

Sighing, he turned back to the counter, and started setting up the coffee machine for another pot of coffee.

Parv glanced at Parvis, still occupied with picking at his eggs, and then over at Strife. "How’re you doing, anyways?" he asked, softly, digging through the cupboards until he found bread in lieu of the well-hidden biscuits. “Can't be easy for you, Strifey, I mean…”

He trailed off, suddenly not sure what to say. It was obvious there was _something_ wrong, something Strife was hiding and holding back. But Parv wasn’t sure what, and didn’t know enough to make a guess. “You’re, like. Looking after Parvis, and doing work, and… dealing with… stuff,” he finished, lamely, waving a vague hand.

“I'm fine,” said Strife, tightly, hand white-knuckled around the handle of the cafetiere. His voice, pitched quiet enough Parvis couldn't hear, held a very definite note of _no more questions_.

When Parv just continued to stare at him, one disbelieving eyebrow raised, Strife sighed. “Seriously,” he said, shoulders slumping as he fitted the cafetiere back into the coffee machine. “I'm _fine_ , Parv. I'm fine. Just… tired.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. He _was_ just tired, the crushing kind of exhaustion he could feel in his bones. And he _was_ fine, mostly, if _fine_ ignored the nightmares that left him waking in a cold sweat. If _fine_ was Parvis’ whimpers of _why_ echoing in his ears. If _fine_ meant long-suppressed memories crowding at the corners of his mind, jostling to be let in – memories of flinching from a guard’s raised baton, people with empty eyes and the same marks as Parvis on their back, of _what d’you think_ you’re _looking at, strɔɪf_ -

“Okay!” said Parv, brightly, and not for the first time Strife thanked whatever gods were listening that his boyfriend was so easily pacified. “That's good. If you're sure. Though you should probably ease off your disgusting coffee, or you're not going to sleep for, like, a week. Or maybe forever.”

Strife summoned up a tired smile from somewhere as he pressed the start button on the coffee machine. “Hey!” he objected, mildly, as Parv shoved bread into the toaster and started digging through the cupboard for something to put on his soon-to-be toast. “You were complimenting my coffee just a minute ago.”

Any response Parv might have had was silenced by a soft, “Um,” from the table. Parvis' egg-damp fingers were curled around the mug of warm milk, trembling a little, and his eyes flicked between them and the floor as his jaw worked silently. Strife watched him, silently, waiting patiently, until Parvis managed, "I- I want. Some."

“Coffee?” asked Strife, unsure, glancing back at the coffee machine that was beginning to bubble again. “I'm- I'm not sure that's a good idea, Parvis-”

“No,” interrupted Parvis, and then flinched, ducking his head. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “No, uh. Toast. Please.” The smell of Parv's toast was drifting across the room as it toasted, and it made Parvis' stomach curl with an actual desire for _food_ for the first time in… he couldn't remember, really.

As hungry as he had been, always _so hungry_ , under Ridge's tender care, he couldn't ever remember _wanting_ food. When he'd been fed, it had always been bland, disgusting, mouldy or spoiled or drugged – when it had been nice, it'd been from Ridge's hand, and followed swiftly by fingers and his cock.

“Are you trying to steal my toast, me?” asked Parv, a teasingly suspicious note to his voice – only to backtrack when Parvis stiffened, shoulders hunching, looking ready to start up the familiar litany of _no no no_. “Joking! Parvy's only joking. Of course you can have some of my toast.”

Exhaling slowly, Strife grit his teeth. “Parv-” he started, quietly – only to bite down on the _you need to be more careful_ when Parvis turned to look at him sharply, a lingering edge of wariness in eyes. “…Doesn't matter,” he muttered, something almost bitter in his voice. “Just- make sure the toast is kinda soft, okay.” He remembered Parvis' missing teeth, the soft, tender, bleeding gum in the spaces left behind, and closed his eyes.

Parv just hummed an acknowledgement, hovering by the toaster, tapping an absent rhythm onto the work surface. “You worry too much, Strifey,” he said, reaching out to brush fingers against Strife's wrist. As always, the cool touch of his skin made Strife shiver, warmth prickling up his arms. “ _Relax_. It's-”

The doorbell rang, and Parvis jumped, _violently_. The mug he'd been holding slipped from his grasp, hit the edge of the table, and bounced off to smash against the floor in a puddle of milk and ceramics.

“…Sorry,” whispered Parvis, into the frozen silence that followed, ducking his head as his shoulders began to shake. “Sorry, sorry, _sorry_ -” His fingers curled white-knuckled in his lap, eyes fixed on the floor, on the spreading white of the milk, fighting the urge to slip off the chair and onto his knees. “Sorry-” He brought a hand up to his face, pressed his face against it, nuzzling against his palm to try and ease the violent beat of his heart and the spiking adrenaline in his bloodstream.

“It's- it's okay,” said Strife, glancing between him and the mess and the door to the hallway. “Seriously, it's fine, just- Parv, clean up the mess, I've got to go answer that.” The _and try to calm Parvis down_ went unsaid but, judging by the downward tug of Parv's lips, it didn't go unheard.

Strife left Parvis still apologising and Parv's cheery, mindless chatter behind in the kitchen as he headed down the hall, trying to work out who'd be calling this early on a weekend. 

Lomadia always let him know she was coming in advance. Nilesy usually knocked rather than used the bell. Lying didn't tend to bother with doors at all – they just stepped out of the shadows lurking in the corner of whatever room Strife was using, and laughed at the way he yelped, high-pitched and terrified, every time. The Sirs were a possibility, he supposed, but they'd only been by last week, and Strife hoped he'd yelled at them enough to discourage them a _little_ longer than that.

It could, he thought, as his hand touched the latch, be Kirin. He sincerely hoped it was – he had a few choice words to say to the demigod, given the chance, starting with _what the everloving fuck_ and ending in several things that were significantly less polite.

He pulled the door open, got halfway through the first syllable of, “Hello-”, and realised it was definitely _not_ Kirin.

“Oh, hi, Strife!” said Ridge, cheerily – and then there was a hand around his throat, a tight band of steel in a crushing grip, and he was being lifted off the ground and _thrown_ before he could so much as think about reaching for his atomic disassembler.

He hit one of the inside walls, _hard_ , skull cracking audibly against the netherbrick. His vision whited out for a split second, ears ringing, driving the breath from his chest. Lying there, dazed and nauseous and gasping, his eyes refocused just in time to see Ridge stepping over his threshold as if the various carefully-crafted defences he'd set up weren't even there.

“You-” he gasped, pushing himself onto his elbows and gagging as the nausea swelled to almost unbearable proportions. “You get the _fuck_ out of my house, you piece of _shit_.”

Boots moved into his line of vision, slow and unhurried, and he levered himself up onto his knees out of sheer bloodymindedness so he could glare at the demigod before him. 

“Hi, Strife,” repeated Ridge, although there was none of the fake cheer in his voice this time. He sounded _furious_ , dark and dangerous and terrifying enough to make the hairs on the back of Strife’s neck stand on end. “Long time no see, huh?” 

He smiled, and if Strife had been on his feet in that moment, he would have turned tail and _ran_ , because there was nothing human in that smile. Ridges’ bared teeth made his fight-or-flight instinct _scream_ , hindbrain gibbering in fear, and it was effort not to _actually_ start gibbering. That smile was the wide, sharp smile of an apex predator – and Strife was under no illusions as to who the prey was in this equation.

Taking a deep breath, Strife braced himself. “Go- go to hell,” he managed, head fuzzy and ears still ringing high and continuous and deafening.

“Wrong answer,” said Ridge, grin widening. He made a grab for Strife’s hair, and scowled when his fingers slid through it, scraping against Strife’s scalp – his not-quite-a-buzzcut was too short to get a proper grip on. Settling for the throat again instead, he closed his hand around Strife’s neck, pressing a thumb over his pulse point. “Now. I’m here because you’ve got something of mine, Strife, and I want it back. I don’t like people stealing my toys. Hand the little asshole over, though, and I’ll… well, I’ll just walk right back out of here. Probably, anyways.”

Strife closed a hand around Ridge’s wrist, digging nails into the skin and tendons there in a useless attempt to force him to let go. He didn’t even manage to break the demigod’s porcelain skin. “You’ll touch Parvis again over my dead body,” he snarled, trying not to think about how incredibly easy it would be for Ridge to do just that.

Ridge lips peeled back even further to reveal far too many perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth, his smile little more than a threat display. “Still the _wrong goddamn answer_ ,” he growled, and slammed Strife’s head against the wall with a sharp, brutal jerk of his arm

This time, when Strife’s head hit the wall, white light consumed his world for more than just a moment.

He came to a minute later – head throbbing, blood running hot and slick down his scalp and neck, soaking into his collar – the unmistakeable sound of Parvis sobbing from the kitchen. Parv was _howling_ , yelling, “-don’t touch him. You don’t fucking touch him! I- I _trusted_ you, Ridge! I thought you were my _friend_ , but you’re _not_ , you’re mean and you’re a liar and-”

The yelling broke off with a wet, crunching noise, and Parvis’ whimpering got louder.

Staggering to his feet, somehow managing to not throw up through the violent way his brain pulsed against the inside of his skull, Strife leant against the wall to catch his breath for a half-second. Then, pausing only to clumsily grab the disassembler from by the door and flip the on switch with a faint, threatening hum of electricity as it heated up white-hot, he stumbled into the kitchen.

Ridge was furthest from the door, by the table, Parvis on his knees at his feet and whimpering as best he could through the too-tight hand around his throat. The scared-animal look Strife had worked so hard, _so hard_ , to help him lose was back full-force, deer-in-the-headlights eyes wide and terrified. By the door, Parv was hunched over, one hand pressed to his heavily-bleeding nose. The other was raised with a middle finger pointed towards Ridge in a petty, childish, but wholeheartedly-deserved display of hatred towards the demigod.

“Oh, Strife! Hi again, you’re _just_ in time.” Ridge grinned, waved cheerily with the hand that wasn’t closed around Parvis’ neck. “Just picking up what’s mine. It’s being a little bit of a pain in the ass, though. I _do_ hope you haven’t been teaching it bad habits.”

Snarling, Strife tightened his grip on the disassembler, trying to disguise the way he was leaning heavily on it to keep his knees from giving out. He felt more than saw Parv draw in close to his side – out of fear or as support, he didn’t know, but he was grateful either way.

“Parvis,” whispered Parvis, whites all the way around his irises, gasping for breath so fast that he was almost hyperventilating. “Parvis, _Parvis_ -”

Ridge shook him, like a dog with a rabbit in its jaws, until his teeth clicked together. “And _you_ ,” he said, pleasant and cheerful and utterly, heart-stoppingly terrifying. “You can shut the fuck up. You’re not _Parvis_. That guy over there? _He’s_ Parvis. You don’t have a name, do you? ‘Cause you don’t _deserve_ one, pet.” He grinned, stroking down the line of Parvis’ thin throat with one broad thumb. “Only humans get names, and you’re not fucking _human_.”

“ _He_ ,” Strife spat, aware that the fury he was radiating was hardly going to help Parvis stop panicking but so far beyond anger he didn’t know if he could calm himself down even if he _wanted_ to, “is a _person_ , not a- not a fucking _object_. That person is called Parvis, Ridge, and he’s got the same goddamn rights as any other person on this world – and, lord help me, I am gonna remove your head from your _goddamn_ _body_ if you don’t let him go _right now_.”

“Really?” asked Ridge, completely ignoring the threat. “You want _two_ of them? That’s kinda filthy of you, Strife.” He grinned, a wide, lewd expression that turned Strife’s stomach – tongue sticking out from between his teeth, one eyebrow raised. “I think if you’ve got one to enjoy, it’s only fair I get a bit of fun too, huh?”

It took everything Strife had not to lunge for Ridge right there, to bring the disassembler down on him and consequences be _damned_. The only thing stopping him was Parvis, a human shield between him and Ridge that would inevitably get caught in the crossfire. “He’s- he’s a goddamn _person_ ,” he repeated, teeth gritted, hands shaking. “Not some kind of- of fucking _prize_! He’s got the right to be free, to make his own damn decisions, to not have- have you with your hand around his goddamn neck!”

Raising an eyebrow, Ridge tightened the hand around Parvis’ neck until Parvis was choking, breathing in sharp, hitching gasps and clawing uselessly at Ridge’s fingers as his lips slowly purpled. “Look at him. _Look at him_. You think _this_ can be trusted with it’s own _life_?” He shook Parvis, ever so slightly, and grinned when he swayed on his knees, wheezing. “He’s not even a person any more, he’s just a _thing_. Nice and obedient. I could probably tell him to suck your dick right now and he’d do it.”

He paused, and his eyes lit up. “Ooh! I like that idea.” Loosening his grip, he dug his nails in until Parvis gasped in a deep breath, whimpered, looking up at Ridge with wide, red-rimmed eyes. “You should go suck Strife’s dick. As a thank you, for him not hurting you like fucking _deserve_.”

Parvis stared, frozen, until Ridge released him. “Go!” he said, flapping a hand in Strife’s direction. “Go on, do it.” When Parvis still didn’t move, Ridge’s face darkened. “I _said_ , go on, or I’ll break every bone in your fucking body.”

“No,” whispered Parvis, trembling, still staring up at Ridge like an animal with its leg caught in a trap, invisible, jagged teeth biting into him and pinning him in place. “No, no, _no_ -”

Ridge backhanded him, casually, hard enough his head snapped to one side and something crunched. Crying out, Parvis hunched in on himself, arms coming up to cover his head even as Parv started yelling again, hurling abuse at Ridge as if the words were going to change anything. As if shouting was going to fix the way Parvis’ eyes had gone blank and empty with terror.

When Parvis started crawling, slowly, shaking, eyes on the ground, Ridge’s smile split into a wide, ugly grin. There was _something_ behind those eyes, behind that porcelain-perfect face, something monstrous and inhuman that chilled Strife to the bone.

He only managed to tear his eyes away at a soft, tentative touch to his crotch. Looking down, slowly, _slowly_ – knowing what he was going to see but praying he wasn’t anyways – he realised Parvis had crossed the distance between them and settled at his feet. As he watched, Parvis leaned in again, rubbing his nose and one cheek against Strife’s entirely soft dick through his trousers. When that still elicited no response other than silent, stunned staring, Parvis whimpered, flinched, and pressed an open mouth against the front of Strife’s slacks in desperate supplication.

Strife just stared down at him for a second, frozen, faintly horrified.

He’d thought they were _making progress_ , or _something_ , that just beneath the skin of Parvis there was Parv, ready to emerge. This, though… this, to see Parvis crawling and debasing himself again, at the mildest of words from Ridge, made his blood run cold and disgusted.

“That’s- that’s sick,” said Parv, in a voice that shook, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen across the room. He was pointedly not looking, staring up at the ceiling and _shaking_ with rage and disgust. “Jesus, that’s- that’s _sick-_ ”

The words seemed to unfreeze Strife, finally, and he pushed Parvis away without thinking, stumbling back to make some space between them. Unsteady as Parvis was, one leg too damaged to be used and whole body swaying like he was drunk, the push was enough to unbalance him – he toppled over sideways, towards his bad leg, barely catching himself on his palms.

“See, pet?” said Ridge, viciously, _victoriously_. “Deep down, even _they_ know you need to be hurt when you don’t follow the rules. They’ve just got different rules to me – less fun ones.” 

Parvis, hunched and half-crumpled on the floor, was staring between Ridge and Strife again, wide-eyed and trapped in no-man’s-land. This time, though, there was no fear in his eyes. Just a heavy sort of resignation.

“Parvis-” said Strife, something like desperation in his voice. He took a step forward, one hand held out, and then froze again when Parvis flinched as if he’d been slapped. The blank expression on Parvis’ face made him feel sick to his stomach. “No, _no_ , I didn’t-” _I’m not like him, I’m not like_ them _, I’m_ not-

Ridge held out his hand, too, and Parvis’ head whipped round at the movement. “At least with me, you know the rules,” wheedled Ridge, rubbing his fingers together as if he were coaxing a shy and nervous cat. “C’mon. _C’mon_. You know me, little ol’ Ridge, you _know_ what I do. And you know you deserve it, don’t you? Come back, pet, there’s a good boy.”

For a moment, Parvis was still, pinned between the two of them and bowed beneath the weight of their gazes. Strife couldn’t breathe, fear like an iron band around his lungs, and he knew he should reach out, grab Parvis, drag him back to safety – but it felt _wrong_ , when Parvis was flinching from him, wrong to reach out and haul him back anyways. Besides, Strife knew Ridge would murder all three of them before he could take a single step. All he could do was stand there, watching, heart thundering in his chest, and _pray_.

Then Parvis started crawling towards Ridge, and suddenly Strife’s chest felt like someone had driven in ice-cold spike through it. Next to him, Parv inhaled sharply, twitching. “ _No_ -”

“Oh look at that,” said Ridge, sweetly, smug victory in every inch of his tone. “Looks like he’s made his choice, huh, Strife?”

As soon as Parvis was within arm’s reach, Ridge grabbed him by his hair and dragged him bodily the last few feet, scraping Parvis’ knees across the kitchen tile. “You’re so _stupid_!” he crowed, hand white-knuckled in Parvis’ hair and dragging his head back far enough that his throat was a bared column of taut skin, far enough that he was whining and shaking as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. “So _fucking_ stupid, pet. But then again…” He stroked the back of one finger down Parvis’ cheek, smiling indulgently. “That’s why I like you, I s’pose.”

The fury in Strife’s gut flared red-hot, whiting out all reason and common sense. “You get the _fuck_ off of him-!” he snarled, and _lunged_.

There was laughter, whirling dust and dirty-white light – and then he was on his knees on the tiles of his kitchen floor, and Parvis and Ridge were gone, and it was suddenly very, _very_ hard to breathe.

“Strifey. Hey. _Hey_. Earth to Strifeykins,” said Parv, carefully, resting a hand on Strife’s shoulder. Strife was trembling, ever so slightly, staring into the middle distance, hands curled into white-knuckle fists at his sides, gasping. “…Strife?”

Screams were echoing in Strife’s ears, and it was an effort to remember that they weren’t actually there – that it wasn’t him, it _wasn’t him_ , this wasn’t his home planet and it wasn’t a guard with hands like steel bands around his arms, it was Minecraftia and Parvis and _Ridge_ -

Reality reasserted itself abruptly, a rubber band snapping back into place, and he sucked into a sharp breath, flinching away from Parvis’ touch.

“We-” he muttered, hauling himself to his feet unsteadily, swaying. It was an effort to ignore the way Parvis was watching him like he was something volatile, explosive, but he managed it. “We have to get him back. We _have_ to. I’m not letting this happen agai- I’m not- I’m not letting him be hurt. Not on my watch. Not like this.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **tw** MAJOR GORE WARNING, torture, eye horror, violence, injury, blood, dehumanisation, disordered thinking, abuse, manipulation, noncon sexual situations

Awareness came back to Parv in stops and starts, the dark fog in his head clearing in bursts. He heard whimpering, first, and then became aware of where he was – lying face-down on cold stone, aching, a lingering drug-tinged heaviness to his limbs – and then finally, _finally_ his body began to respond. Peeling open his eyes, he managed to shift an arm under himself and flip his sluggish body over onto its back- only to come face-to-face with _himself_.

“Oh- hey, me,” he mumbled, with a dull sort of confusion, pushing himself upright. The motion was too abrupt, and made his head spin, but it also helped clear it a bit. Looking around the room he was in, he wrinkled his nose.

It was small, a hollow cuboid of smooth basalt no more than five meters by five, lit by a single torch that filled the room with an oily smell. Judging by the disgusting drain in the corner, though, and the unidentifiable filth smeared and crusted across the floor in dark streaks, it was preferable to whatever else the room would ordinarily smell like. There was nothing other than the torch and the drain, though. The room was empty, an efficient prison just for him and-

“Wait- wait, _shit_ ,” he gasped, his thoughts finally clicking into place as his eyes found the room’s other occupant again. “ _…Parvis_?” He drew in a deep breath and scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear the last of the cobwebs as cold dread settled into the pit of his stomach. It was an emotion that was largely unfamiliar to the mighty Parvy-Par, and not one he much liked. “Oh, fuck. _Fuck_.”

Parvis was worse than when Parv had last seen him. A _lot_ worse. It almost _annoyed_ him, to see his and Strife’s work undone – to see Parvis’ leg crooked in half a dozen more places, more breaks than Parvis thought a human leg had _room_ for, the whole thing dragging in a disturbingly fluid way when Parvis shifted tentatively closer. To see even more scars decorating the skin stretched tight across his back and the knobby line of his spine, fresh cuts over bruises blooming like a violent watercolour. To see-

“Oh my god,” murmured Parv, starting forward, and then remembering himself when Parvis flinched violently. “What- what happened to your _eye_ , holy _shit_?”

Parvis was silent, but he brought one hand up to touch his right eye. The last two fingers on it were crooked, stuck at a half-bend just like his leg, but he ran his index and middle finger tentatively over the chemical burns underneath the milky-blind eye, feeling the rough, sagging skin there. He tried for a smile, hoping to reassure the original him, not liking the strange mix of horror and fury on Parv’s face – but, judging by Parv’s expression, his attempt at making his lips curl up did nothing to help.

“Jesus, Parvis,” breathed Parv, chewing on his lower lip and slowly, slowly reaching an arm forward. Parvis didn’t flinch, this time – though he did tremble like a wild animal with its leg caught in a bear trap, feral and terrified – and Parv’s fingers touched a cheek rough with stubble and scars. “ _Jesus_. I’m- I’m sorry.”

Humming softly, Parvis just _watched_ him, so carefully he might as well have been a hawk. It was a little off-putting, one eye tracking his movements, but Parv could understand why.

He kept his movements slow, careful, as he gingerly touched the corner of Parvis’ damaged eye. “Jesus,” he muttered again, pulling his hand away – only to jump when something above him grated, a small square of light added to the dull glow of the torch illuminating the room. In front of him, Parvis flinched, badly, swallowing a whimper.

“Oh, you’ve woken up!” said Ridge, happily, touching down on the ground with an inhuman lightness and grace for someone as tall and solid as he was. “Good. Good! We can have some fun now.”

Parv was on his feet in an instant despite the lingering dizziness from whatever he’d been drugged wiith, hands curled into fists, lips already curled and teeth bared in a snarl. “Strifey’s going to fucking _kill_ you for this,” he spat, holding himself back from taking a good swing at Ridge through sheer self control. “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing? I’m gonna kick your ass _so hard-_ ”

“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong, Parv. Your little boyfriend Strife is to _thank_ for this!” interrupted Ridge, and Parv shut up instantly, face going _grey_ with horror at the implications of those words. Sighing, Ridge rolled his eyes and flapped a dismissive hand. “No, no, he didn’t hand you over or anything – he’s weirdly sentimental like that – but he _did_ give me the idea.It was kinda greedy of hi, wanting _two_ Parvises, and at first I thought he was just being kinda a kinky sonnuva bitch. But _then_ I thought- hey! Good idea!”

He clapped his hands together in a dramatic gesture, rubbing them in brisk yet distinctly _threatening_ motion. “Right! Shush now, though, daddy’s working out what to do first. ‘Cos I’ve got _two_ of you to play with now, which is fun, oh man is it fun, but- decisions, _decisions_.”

Parvis watched Ridge nervously from his place on the floor, shifting on his hands and one working knee, cringing when the movement brought Ridge’s attention to bear on him. “No,” he murmured, nervously, licking his lips and twitching away when Ridge tried to grab for him. “No, no, no-” 

“Oh, come _on_ , you little bastard,” sighed Ridge, shaking his head. “Look, we’ve been over the talking thing before, haven’t we?” He took another swipe and managed to grab a handful of Parvis’ hair – whose reactions were too slow and sluggish to let him flinch away in time – and hauled him closer. “I’m pretty sure I told you _not to do it_ , huh?”

Ridge bared his teeth, a tight sort of frustration in his eyes as he curled his fingers into a fist and drove it into Parvis’ face.

Parvis wailed, blood gushing out of his nose – his head would have snapped back if Ridge hadn’t had a grip on his hair. Parv yelled, wordlessly, and started forward as if to grab Ridge’s arm, but Ridge was already punching Parvis again, and again, and again, until the high noises of pain he made turned into raspy gasps for breath.

“Aw, you always know how to cheer me up,” said Ridge, when he was finally done, exhaling slowly and unevenly despite the heaving of his chest, his expression softening at the edges until it was almost a smile. “Don’t you?”

He reached out and traced the high curve of one of Parvis’ cheekbones with one bloody thumb, the gesture oddly tender. “Shit,” he groaned, quietly, running the tip of his tongue along his front teeth. “Shit, that’s good.” 

Parvis was whimpering, a loud, pitiful noise, the barest hint of a _no_ threaded through it, the quiet whine of an _nnn_ before each exhale. Some of Ridge’s previous anger flickered in his eyes, and he ground his teeth together with an audible sigh, drawing his arm back once again.

“Stop!” snapped Parv, hands curling into fists, with far more bravery. “You’re- you’re _sick_ , stop fucking hitting him-”

“But I can’t fucking _stand_ the noises it makes. Reminds me of the villagers. _Urgh_.” Ridge looked down at the shell of a human he held in his fist, and _shook_ it, hard enough that Parvis’ teeth clicked together. “Shut the _fuck_ up!” he roared, shifting his grip and pressing his thumb directly over Parvis’ windpipe. “Or do you want me to take your goddamn vocal cords out, too?”

Parvis quieted, instantly, a strip of white all the way around the dark glitter of the iris in his one working eye, wide with terror.

“Better,” said Ridge, approvingly, and jerked him sideways to smash his head against the wall.

Skull crunched, blood smearing across the stone in a glistening streak as Ridge dragged him away. Stunned and dizzy and broken, Parvis began to cry. He couldn’t catch his breath through the throbbing rushing through his skull in waves, so the sound came out in jerking gasps between gulps of air, weak and pathetic and more than Parv could bear.

“ _Hit me_!” yelled Parv, over Parvis’ damp, hitching sobs, hands clenched into shaking fists, blunt nails digging into the meat of his palm hard enough to draw blood. “Hit me instead, you _sick fuck_ , just- just leave him alone, _god_ -”

Ride paused, one hand still clenched tight around Parvis’ throat, the other raised in preparation for the next blow. His knuckles were streaked crimson with Parvis’ blood, a spatter of it across his cheek. “Oh?” he said, slowly, dropping Parvis to the floor and wiping at the blood on his face. It smeared in a violent streak, a brilliant red extension to his wide, dangerous smile. “Oh, is this a _weak spot_? …It _is_ , isn’t it? Aww, this is gonna be _fun_.”

He kicked Parvis in the ribs, hard enough something broke with an audible _snap_ , hard enough that Parvis started whimpering in short, breathless gasps again. Ridge kept his eyes locked with Parv’s and a pleasant smile on his face the whole while. “Beg.”

“Please please please-” whispered Parvis, raw like he had a throat full of rusty nails, dragging himself close enough to clutch at Ridge’s foot. Fingers scrabbled over the shiny, polished leather of his boot. He managed to grab a handful of Ridge’s trouser-leg, and clutched at it like it was a lifeline, panting through the dizziness and the nausea. “Please-”

“Not you, you dumb shit,” snapped Ridge, shoving him away with the toe of one boot. “Oh my god. My fucking _horse_ is smarter than you and, believe me, if Paco is smarter than you then you’re pretty fucking dumb.” He shook his head, before turning to Parv, baring in his teeth in something that was far too viciously hungry to be a smile. “No, _you_. I want to hear you beg.”

Hands curled tight into fists, shoulders shaking with sheer _fury_ , Parv grit his teeth. “ _Please_ ,” he forced out, stomach curdling with the awful humiliation of it, with the way Parvis was whimpering, more animal than human. “Please- stop hitting him.”

“Not good enough,” said Ridge brightly, giggling that awful, low, wheezing giggle of his. He glanced down at Parvis, who was trying to haul himself onto hands and one knee with deep, shaky gasps, and brought the heel of one heavy boot down on vulnerable fingers.

Parvis _shrieked_ , collapsing back to the cold basalt floor, curling into as tight a ball as he could manage in a pathetic attempt to protect himself. “Also, not _really_ what I was looking for, but, y’know, it’s a start. Keep going!”

It was a conscious effort not to throw himself at Ridge, to lunge with bared teeth and try to rip the bastard’s throat out.

“What the _fuck_ do you-” he snarled, biting the words off and seething, breath hitching in his throat as he tried not to scream. He knew what Ridge wanted and, despite the anger, he acquiesced, dropping stiffly and reluctantly to his knees. “ _Please_ stop hitting him. _Master_.” His tone wasn’t exactly obedient, a tightly-compressed rage coiled so tight in his chest it felt like it was choking him, but at least his words were.

“Oh, that’s better!” Ridge glanced briefly at Parvis, who’d started mumbling to himself, a quiet repetition of _no no no_ when Parv had dropped to his knees. He grabbed at Ridge’s ankle with his unbroken hand – the fingers on the other were crooked, twitching, useless – and got kicked away for his troubles, easy and casual. “Not perfect, but better. That’s good.” Ridge glanced down at Parvis, smiling indulgently. “This one was a quick study, too. So motivated by pain.”

Humming thoughtfully, Ridge looked down at Parv, licking absently at his teeth as he considered the furious mortal before him, bowed but not broken. Then he raised a hand, slowly, grinning the whole time, and backhanded Parv.

He put barely a fraction of his strength behind it, would probably have snapped Parv’s neck in an instant if he had, but it was still more than enough to break his nose, fracture his cheekbone. Ridge felt the _crunch_ of it all he way up through his arm. “Say _thank you_ , there’s a good pet.”

The blow snapped Parv’s head to one side, made him cry out in pain, set his skull ringing and his nose burning hot and fuzzy as blood began gushing out. Copper flooded his mouth – he’d bitten his cheek – and he clenched his jaw, drawing in a slow, deliberate breath through gritted teeth. “Thanks,” he sneered, baring his teeth in a mockery of a smile, and spat bloodied saliva up at Ridge’s face.

For a moment, Ridge was frozen, something dark and dangerous and ravenously, uncontrollably _furious_ lurking behind his pleasant, gap-toothed smile and glittering golden eyes. Parv’s stomach clenched with raw, animal fear, and it took everything he had to stay on his knees, still, eyes locked with the monster before him.

As soon as it had come, though, it was gone, and Ridge’s porcelain-doll mask was back. He wiped the spit off his face slowly, deliberately, and tutted as if Parv was a dog that had just pissed on the new carpet. “Aww, no, no,” he said, disappointed. “I thought you’d gotten the idea, but apparently… not.” Crouching down, he grabbed Parvis by the hair, hauling him up onto his knees. “C’mon, Parvis, let’s show him how it’s done, hmm?”

Parvis, swaying, clutching his broken hand to his chest, said nothing, other than his continual mumbles of _no no no_. His eyes had gone hazy and blank with the familiar detached dissociation that Ridge so loathed – it made him infinitely less fun to play with.

Sighing irritation, Ridge wrapped a hand around his throat, over his new collar and the near-permanent necklace of bruises he wore, and another around his upper arm, and _wrenched_.

It turned out that even Parvis struggled to stay absent through his shoulder being dislocated. The joint popped out of place fairly easily – it wasn’t the first time Ridge had done this, by any means – and Parvis _screamed_ , awareness flickering back across his face as the pain sent fire down his arm and spine.

When Ridge released him, he swayed, slumping forward and pressing his head against Ridge’s thigh as he gasped for breath. “Thank- _thank you_ -” he forced out, face grey with pain, mouth hanging open as he fought to breathe as evenly as he could when every movement of his ribs made his shoulder shift and scrape. “Thank you- master-” He tilted his head to nuzzle against Ridge’s crotch, pressing his bloodied nose and open mouth against the growing bulge there, and Ridge grinned.

Dropping an indulgent hand down to comb through Parvis’ hair, petting his scalp, Ridge turned expectantly to Parv. “Well…?” he asked, raising one eyebrow. Parvis was crying now, sobbing silently, the tears soaking into Ridge’s trousers along with the blood as he continued his obedient nuzzling.

Parv, for a long moment, could do nothing more than stare in horror. It was sick, sick and twisted, and as he watched Parvis mouth at the clear outline of Ridge’s cock he thought he might actually throw up. “Stop, _please_ ,” he forced out, when he was sure he wasn’t going to vomit, voice thin and hoarse as if he were the one that had been screaming, not Parvis. “Stop, please, m- mas- _master_.”

No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn’t keep the sharp note of anger and _disgust_ out of his voice.

“You’re really not very _convincing_ , are you?” said Ridge, his grin only widening. “Try again. I mean- unless you’re getting off on seeing sweet little Parvis get hurt as much as I am.” He rocked forward against Parvis’ mouth and moaned dramatically, tipping his head back to glance down through his eyelashes at Parv. “I mean, it _is_ pretty good, right? All those blood and bruises… aw, man. Power just feels so _nice_.”

“Please, master,” Parv managed, through gritted teeth, tone as neutral as he could manage but eyes still dark with hatred. “Hit me again. _Please_ , just- fucking hit me, whatever, I’ll-” His breath hitched in his chest, shame like a heavy cloak across his shoulders, but Parvis was still crying silently, still bleeding, still curled in on himself with his misshapen fingers held closed to his chest. “I’ll suck your dick, if that’s what you want, just- please. Stop fucking hurting him, for _god’s sake._ ”

Ridge hummed, tugging Parvis away from his cock by the hair. “But I’m the only god here, and I _like_ it,” he pointed out. He stroked the palm of his free hand down Parvis’ cheek, almost tenderly, eyeing the broken, kneeling man before him like a piece of meat. Rubbing his thumb beneath Parvis’ one working eye, pressing over the already bruising swelling there, he smiled, slowly.

“But, okay. Okay,” he agreed, after a moment, pulling his eyes away from Parvis’ ashen, terrified face to look at Parv. His thumb slowly, slowly, shifted from the purpling skin of Parvis’ lower eyelid to the corner of it, the blunt tip of his thumb and bitten-ragged thumbnail digging in ever so slightly. “You get one more chance to convince me. ‘Cause I’m feeling _nice_ today.”

Parv and Parvis made an almost identical noise of terror, at the same time, and Ridge couldn’t help but _laugh_. 

“Aww, that’s cute. It really is,” he said, as Parv stared at him in frozen horror and Parvis began hyperventilating, clutching at the hem of his coat with broken fingers because his other arm refused to move, whispering _no no no_. “Weird, but cute.”

“Fuck- _please_ ,” gasped Parv, as if the words had unfrozen him. Scrambling forward, he knelt at Ridge’s feet and leaned in – despite the way it turned his stomach – to nuzzle his face against Ridge’s crotch. “Please,” he breathed, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the hard line of Ridge’s cock beneath his trousers. 

He could taste the copper of Parvis’ blood where it had soaked into the fabric, the salt of his tears. “Please, master, hit me, I- I deserve it, please hit me, master, f-fuck- fuck me- _please_ -” Panic made the words easier, the sick fear gripping him overruling the humiliation of begging to be abused. “Please let me suck your d-dick, please- please _hurt me_ , just don’t- don’t hurt him, _please_ -”

“Much better!” said Ridge, voice warm with approval, eyes glittering a brilliant, hypnotic gold. 

Then he kicked out at Parv, driving a boot into his ribs hard enough to make something snap, and dug his thumb into Parvis’s eye socket with an brutally efficient movement.

There wasn’t a word for the noise Parvis made. It was a raw, animal sound of pure agony. He’d thought there was nothing worse that Ridge could do to him, after the cuts and bruises and broken bones, the mind games, the endless violations of his body in every way possible – but this… The softness of his eye gave beneath the pressure of Ridge’s thumb, gave and gave and then _broke_ like a ripe grape, splitting with a wet noise he felt more than heard as pain drove through his skull like a railroad spike and the world went dark.

Pushed several feet back by the force of the kick, Parv righted himself just in time to see Parvis’ eyeball burst in a spray of crimson blood. “No-!” he howled, but it was too late, Parvis already blind and screaming, _screaming_ -

Ridge dropped Parvis, after a moment, and he didn’t even have the presence of mind to try and catch himself before he hit the floor. It _hurt_ , hurt so badly he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything other than curl in on himself and claw mindlessly at his own face, heedless of his broken fingers and ruined shoulder.

Parvis’ body had barely hit the floor before Parv was doubled over his own knees and vomiting into the space between them, stomach rebelling. 

“Oh, eww,” muttered Ridge, stepping over Parvis’ twitching, shuddering body and stopping in front of Parv. The blood mage was shivering, eyes wide and wet and red-rimmed, only managing not to cry from sheer, terrified shock, scrubbing at his mouth with a trembling hand to try and wipe it clean. “Well, that’s just disgusting,” he said, absently licking his thumb clean of blood and ocular fluid. “I was going to take you up on the whole dick-sucking offer, but that’s… really kinda a turn-off, even for me.”

“Go- g-go to hell,” breathed Parv, hands clenched into fists on his knees, fingers twitching. The inside of his mouth tasted sour, like death, and fury was boiling in the pit of his stomach. He’d debased himself, suffered pain and humiliation and fucking _assault_ for this other man that wore his face, and then Ridge- Ridge had-

He couldn’t look over at Parvis without feeling an overpowering urge to throw up again.

Ridge’s face darkened, his porcelain mask fracturing as his eyebrows drew together. “You _still_ don’t get it, do you?” he snarled, grabbing Parv by the throat and hauling him up, until his feet were dangling an inch off the floor. Ridge stepped up into the air, adding another foot, and shook Parv until he started choking, face flushing red with lack of breath. “ _I’m the one in control here_. You don’t get to choose! I get to choose! I have you now, and I can do _whatever I want_!”

Wheezing helplessly, Parv scrabbled at the hand around his throat, blunt nails failing to leave so much as a scratch against inhumanly strong skin. “You- you-” he gasped, lips opening and closing like a dying fish, barely able to hear his own words over the roaring in his ears. “Fuck- you-”

Snarling in disgust, Ridge tossed him aside, letting him hit the basalt wall of the room and slide down it slowly, coughing and gasping through his crushed windpipe. “Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be doing that soon enough,” he said, nastily, taking a deep breath to center himself and smoothing hands down his coat. His brows uncreased, eyes lightening from a whiskey-hazel to bright gold. “You’ll change that attitude of yours, too. Parvis was like that at first, and look how good he is now!”

Over in the corner, still senseless with agony but with no more breath to scream, Parvis whimpered. It was a thin, pathetic noise that made Parv’s stomach clench with sympathetic horror. Ridge just laughed.

“You’ll be like that soon, Parv, don’t worry,” he promised, grinning. “I’ve already done it once, now – I’ll be a _lot_ quicker, second time round.” 

He threw Parv a jaunty, mocking salute, barely noticing that Parv was only just picking himself up, slowly and painfully, onto hands and knees from the impact, and sauntered upwards. He rose up through the small block missing from the ceiling, whistling cheerfully, and vanished.

The block settled back into place with a dull, grinding thud a moment later, sealing the room again. Alone, with only Parvis’ gasping and near-soundless sobs for company – with his nose throbbing and his ribs aching and his mouth tasting of sour death – Parv began to cry.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **tw** mentions of torture, heavily implied noncon, eye trauma, injury, blood, violence, abuse, dehumanisation

It was losing Parv that did it.

Everything else, Strife had dealt with – with Parv. With their resources, using their knowledge, _together_. They'd cared for Parvis, helped him heal, even planned a hundred ways to get him back from Ridge despite knowing none of them would work.

But when Parv vanished... he _knew_ , knew exactly who had taken him, exactly _why_ , and that – that, he couldn't deal with. Not alone.

It took him a few days to even notice Parv was missing, when it happened. The blood mage had left on a trip back to his own castle – a rare occurrence, now he had basically moved in with Strife into the tower, but one that was occasionally necessary when the temporary altar he had set up in its basement wasn't enough. He still kept his main altar at the castle, protected by one of his potty-mouthed wizardry rituals, a blood orb left permanently in its basin and the witches below eternally feeding his blood network. But something had gone wrong, apparently, the network not filling as fast as it should, and Parv had left to investigate.

“I'll only be gone a few days, Strife!” he'd said, as he left, kissing Strife's cheek. “Don't worry. It's a quick trip, and I'm practically _invincible_ now. Kind of.” 

When Strife had still frowned – dark bags under his eyes from too much coffee and too little sleep, the whites red-rimmed from the hour he'd spent that morning with Parv clutched to his chest and definitely _not_ crying into the blood mage's hair – Parv had sighed, his cheerful mask slipping a little.

“I'll be safe,” he'd promised, voice lined with a faint, tired worry. He’d cupped his boyfriend's jaw with one gentle hand, and kissed the corner of Strife’s mouth, almost delicately. His fingers were calloused from his endless work at the altar, eternally chipping away at stone to carve runes and rites into the tablets that blood magic used for just about everything, catching on Strife’s stubble when he eventually pulled his hands away. “I _promise_. And when this is sorted, when I come back – we're gonna go, and we're gonna kick Ridge's ass. I'll be back before you know it.”

He hadn't come back.

After three days of his absence – three days of no sleep and pacing the corridors and no one to hold when the helpless anger rose up in him like a tide – Strife had snapped. He'd strapped his jetpack on, grabbed the disassembler by the front door and, promises to wait for Parv be damned, set off to find him.

The castle, when he’d got there, had been empty. Not just devoid of Parv, but the hollow, unlived-in kind of empty a place got when no one had visited for months. Strife had practically _ran_ through the halls and rooms, down stairs, calling Parv’s name, until he’d ended up in the altar room, breathless and aching and so, so afraid.

In the center, the usually-glowing blood altar was dark and _dead_ , dry as a bone, its usual wet gurgling silenced.

It didn’t take long to find out why. Down in the viewing room that looked out over the well of suffering Parv had set up below it, Strife pressed his hands to the glass and fought to breathe as his blood ran cold. 

There was a gap in the window, several pieces of glass removed to allow someone in, and the whole pit was dark and empty – other than a single torch, a backpack Strife recognised as the one Parv had left with, and a sign that simply read _xoxo, Ridgedog_.

And so here he was, in the pouring rain, soaked to the skin without his armour and with the blade of his disassembler crackling and hissing in the damp, standing in front of Kirin's door. Jaw set, eyes hard, he raised a hand and hammered on the door as hard as he could manage. “Kirin!” he yelled. “Kirin, you bastard, I know you're in there. Open the goddamn-”

“Yes?” The person that opened the door most definitely _wasn't_ Kirin. “Can I help you?”

Strife eyed the small witch a little warily. Any other time, he'd have raised an eyebrow at the silk sleep kimono they were wearing, at the lack of eyeliner and the slight smudge to their usually-perfect crimson lipstick – but now wasn't the time. “I need to speak to Kirin,” he said, impatiently, peering past them into the empty entrance hall. “It's- it's urgent, I _really_ need to-”

Sighing, Lying rolled their eyes. “Mortals,” they murmured to themself, flicking an absent sort of hand at Strife. “Always so _impatient_ , and _so_ inconvenient. I do hope you realise you're ruining my fun.” Pursing their lips, they raised one eyebrow at Strife when he leaned forward enough that he was almost trying to push past them. “ _Don't_ do that.” Their voice was ice cold. “Be a good boy and stay here, and I'll go get Kirin for you.”

He watched them as they stalked off down the corridor, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “It's a good thing I like you.”

A few minutes later, Kirin arrived at the door. There was an unmistakeable air of hurried dressing about them – messy hair, creased robes with the buttons done up wrong, missing the customary bandage wraps around their ankles. They kept rubbing their wrists. “Strife!” they said, warmly, when they saw him. “My favourite person. What can I-”

They stopped talking, very abruptly, at the look of absolute _fury_ on Strife's face. “I… have I _done_ something?”

Strife had come to beg for Kirin’s help but, now he was actually faced with the demigod, his plans for negotiation went straight out the window in favour of letting the anger in him bubble over and spill out at the nearest available target. “It's more a case of what you _haven't_ ," he snapped, barely containing himself from taking a swing at Kirin's head with the disassembler. He doubted it'd do much good, but it was the principle of the thing – as well as the emotional satisfaction he'd get from it. “I- what the hell were you _thinking_? Just- just _dumping_ Parvis on me, with no explanation, with no help-”

“I'm going to assume you didn't fly all this way in the pouring rain just to yell at me,” interrupted Kirin, voice distinctly cooler than it had been when they'd first arrived at the door. “Or, I hope you didn’t. It's quite an unpleasant trek in these conditions, and you’ve interrupted- well. Stuff. Things.” Their cheeks pinked a little. “So I'd suggest you finish hurling insults at me and state your business before I throw you off my property.”

There was none of Ridge's easy aura of _predator_ about Kirin, but there was still undeniably _something_ there, cold and inhuman and distinctly _not safe_. Strife swallowed, clutching his disassembler a little tighter. 

It was very easy to forget how _not mortal_ Kirin was, sometimes. Despite the horns and the eyes and the scorched skin, they radiated warmth and amicability most of the time, a soft, clumsy sort of humanity. Seeing someone on their knees in the dirt, talking softly and enthusiastically to slowly-growing plants, tended to dissipate some of the mystery about them.

The look in Kirin's eyes was a reminder that, for all they were good at playing house, they were most definitely _not_ domesticated.

“I… I need your help,” said Strife, quietly, shoulders slumping in defeat. The anger had drained out of him, replaced by a hollow sort of despair that felt like a physical weight around his neck. “Ridge has- he's taken Parv, Kirin. He's taken Parv.”

Kirin raised an eyebrow – it shouldn't be a surprise, that Ridge had gotten greedy, but they hadn’t expected him to be so _blatant_ about it. “Oh?” they said, keeping their voice as even as they could. “Oh dear. That's not good at all. Aren't you two…?” They made a vague sort of gesture in Strife's direction, a little awkwardly.

Strife ground his teeth together. “It’s- look,” he said, trying to ignore the distinct feeling that Kirin was either missing the point or being deliberately obtuse. Knowing the demigod, it could very well have been both. “Look, what’s important is that he’s _gone_ , and I know Ridge’s taken him, and Ridge- he’s got Parvis, too, and I-”

It hit him, then, the enormity of the situation, and for a long moment it was hard to breathe. His words strangled in his throat, eyes wide and too-shiny even in the rain, hands white-knuckled into shaking fists.

“…And you want my help,” said Kirin, slowly, trying to keep a small smile off their face. “My, my, Strife, are you asking for _another_ favour?” They hadn't thought it was possible for _anyone_ to end up as deeply in debt as Strife was – and yet, here he was, asking for more.

Grinding his teeth together, Strife ducked his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” _You bastard_ , he thought, but didn't say, biting the inside of his cheek to keep the words in. He needed Kirin's help right now.

Kirin quirked a curious eyebrow. “And what are you willing to give? This is a big favour, Will. Going up against Ridge isn’t exactly a trivial matter.” It wasn't _that_ big of a favour, in all honesty. Ridge needed taking down a notch, Kirin had known that for a while now, been _itching_ to put the arrogant so-and-so in his place once and for all – and here Strife was, giving him the perfect excuse.

Strife didn't need to know that, though.

“What am I willing to give?” Strife drew in a deep breath, raised his head to stare up at the smiling, friendly demigod watching him intently with dark, fathomless eyes. “I- anything. _Everything_.” He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn’t do whatever it took to get Parv back.

Kirin’s smiled widened, warm and friendly and somehow still full of entirely too many teeth. “Why, Strife!” they said, holding one blackened hand out, fingers tipped with clawed, blue nails. “I do believe we have a deal.”

The moment they touched down in from of Ridge’s castle, Strife knew Parv was in there. Not because of some kind of sixth sense, some magical connection between the two of them, but because of the muffled shouting and yelling he could hear through its walls. A voice that was unmistakably Parv's was yelling obscenities, and Ridge snarling something back, the actual words lost in the noise.

Whenever there was the slightest moment of silence between the two of them, Strife heard faint whimpering that could only be Parvis. His stomach clenched.

“What do we do now?” he asked Kirin, quietly, sliding a hand up the stem of the disassembler and flicking it on. The blade of it lit up with a small buzzing noise, crackling and hissing in the air as it heated white-hot and glowing blue.

Kirin _smiled_. “Now,” they said, rubbing their hands together and holding their palms out towards the wall. “We drop in for a friendly chat.”

There was a whining noise on the edge of Strife's hearing, like the disassembler but growing louder with every minute, interrupted every so often with sharp crackles and pops. Lightning began gathering around Kirin’s fingers as he watched, brilliant blue and sparking, the whine building and building as the lightning began crawling up to Kirin’s elbows, and then-

Between one blink and the next, an entire section of Ridge's castle was suddenly, abruptly _not there_ any more.

In the high-ceilinged room beyond stood Ridge, trousers pushed low on his hips and hard cock spit-shiny and jutting out proudly from the part in the front of his coat. He had one hand around battered and beaten Parv’s throat, holding him a foot off the ground, lips pulled back in a _snarl_ in the face of Parv’s mocking, if exhausted, grin.

A few feet away from them, tied to the leg of a table by a leash attached to a brand new, shiny collar, sat Parvis, hunched over and rocking as he whimpered softly to himself.

“Knock knock!” said Kirin, voice mild and bright as always, dusting the last few sparks off their fingers and slipping their hands into their pockets. “I do hope I'm not interrupting anything here.”

All three of the men framed by the smoking hole in the wall were silent, stunned, for a long moment.

“…Little bastard tried to _bite_ me,” said Ridge, eventually, by way of explanation. He sounded faintly surprised by both the biting and the abrupt renovations his castle had suddenly undergone. 

The mild shock was wiped off his face a moment later, though, to be replaced by a smooth grin as he tucked himself back into his boxers and did his trousers up with his one hand. The interruption didn’t seem to have put him off, and even as he did the button on his waistband up, it was evident he was still hard. “But, oh, hi Kirin! Long time no see, old friend, old buddy, old _pal_. You've not finally stepped down from your high horse to actually _do_ something, have you? It’s taken you long enough to get a clue.”

Parv, one eye blooming purple, nose a swollen, bloody mess, just grinned a bloodstained grin, teeth painted crimson. “Hi, Strifey!” he said, brightly – though Strife knew him well enough to hear the faint tremble to his voice, to see the quietly screaming horror in his dark eyes. He turned back to Ridge, grin widening nastily, and spat in the demigod's face. “Told you Strifey'd come and fuck you up.”

Sighing, Ridge wiped the spit off his face with his free hand, and casually slammed Parv into the nearest wall with an audible _crack_. “You, shut your mouth,” he snarled, as Parv gasped through gritted teeth, evidently trying not to cry out. “Daddy’s talking to the adults right now. God, you’re so _whiney_ without a cock in your mouth.”

“I’m going to suggest you let him go,” said Kirin, coldly enough Strife was honestly surprised the room didn’t start crawling with ice. They slipped a hand free of their pocket and raised it, examining their nails as lightning began to crawl over their fingers again, eyes flicking up to meet Ridge’s, dark and angry.

“Or _what_?” scoffed Ridge, shaking Parv almost absently. One of his limp feet clipped Parvis’ head, and Parvis whimpered, cowering yet further under the table, head swinging blindly from side to side in a helpless attempt to work out where the blow had come from. “You’re going to put me in _time out_?” He laughed. “Why are you even _here_ , Kirin? What are you getting out of this? Because I don’t expect you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart. What’d he promise you? Because whatever it is, it’s not worth it. _Trust me_.”

“Oh, Ridge.” Kirin rolled their eyes, sighing, the lightning now crawling around their forearm up to their elbow. “Let’s not making this ugly.” 

Strife _growled_ , gripping the disassembler hard enough his knuckles ached. “Oh, I’ll make it goddamn _ugly_.”

Ridge threw his head back and _laughed_. “Oh my god!” he cackled, eyeing Strife like he was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. “Oh, jeez, the little mortal with the glowing stick is ready to _fight_ , that's- that's so fucking _cute_ , I don't even know what to do. Oh boy. Ohh _boy_.”

It was only Kirin's other hand, curled tight around his upper arm like an iron band, that stopped Strife lunging for Ridge there and then. It didn't stop him growling, though, teeth bared and hatred in his eyes, the nose of the disassembler twitching forward.

Humming quietly, Ridge eyed the pair of them – Strife with his gadgets, Kirin with his fistful of lightning – and his face darkened ever so slightly. Whilst they were hardly a _threat_ , they were still an inconvenience, and he didn't doubt the two of them could do at least a little damage to him if they were half as determined as they looked.

“Fine,” he said, sounding bored, tightening his grip on Parv's neck when he felt the blood mage begin to choke, twitching in his grasp as his legs kicked out instinctively with the lack of oxygen. One of them nearly clipped Parvis again, just brushing him, and Parvis' sobbing ratcheted up a notch. “Fine, if you _really_ want a fight… well, I guess it’d be rude of me to not give you one.”

He tossed Parv to one side, casually, as if he were a sack of trash. Parv hit the ground with an audible thud and a crunch, skull slamming against the polished basalt, and didn't move. “Come on, then!”

With a yell of fury, Strife _lunged_.

He threw himself at Ridge, disassembler outstretched and crackling, humming with the fierce heat of its blade – but, fast as he was, Kirin was _faster_ , an inhuman blur in the air that breezed past Strife as if he were standing still and slammed into Ridge with the force of a freight train. The two demigods went soaring backwards, slamming into the wall hard enough to send cracks zig-zagging up it, and were immediately consumed in a gout of flame as Ridge howled curses and obscenities.

Abruptly, Strife thought better of getting involved in this particular fight.

Even as he watched, stumbling to a halt several feet away, the flame dissipated, replaced by a filmy layer of bluish ice crawling over everything within a meter of the demigods. The frost crept across the floor almost up to his feet, up the walls – and, in the middle of it, over Kirin and Ridge's skin and clothes, where they stood unsinged by the heart of the inferno. 

Ridge was smoking, slightly, eyes glowing a star-honey gold, and Kirin's wrist wraps had disintegrated to nothingness, revealing blackened skin traced through with neon blue cracks that pulsed in time to the crackling of the lightning crawling over his hands. They were both _grinning_.

Before he could do anything, say anything, lunge for Ridge yet again, Ridge lurched forward and grabbed Kirin by the throat. Raising one hand to the sky, he pressed Kirin to him – chest to chest, hip to hip, almost _intimate_ – and yelled out something in a language Strife didn't recognise.

Kirin's eyes widened, all seven of them. “Strife, get _down_ -” they started – but didn't have time to finish, before dark light was streaking down _through_ the ceiling, hitting them with a _boom_ in a burst of glittering blue-black and spreading out in rippling, beautiful waves. Strife stared, eyes wide, almost hypnotised, and then-

Then the waves hit Strife, a brick wall of solid, concussive pressure and prickling magic.

He was suddenly face-down on the floor and gasping, limbs heavy, fingers numb, head filled with screaming as if he'd stood too close to an explosion. “Starstrike?” he heard Kirin say, dimly, through the ringing in his ears and the black spots dancing in front of his eyes. He felt like someone had taken a hammer to every single one of his bones, had methodically wrenched every single one of his joints out of its socket. “Is that all you've got? That's… that's just sad. I feel almost bad, now, fighting you. It's like taking candy from a baby, it's just _mean_.”

Something _roared_ , something neither human nor animal but old and dark and _furious_ – and, for the first time in his life, Strife thought he understood how rabbits could quite literally die of fear. 

There was a sound of cracking porcelain and snapping teeth, the wet sound of tearing flesh, and then _heat_ again. It didn't burn, but Strife felt a wave of warmth that could only have come from more fire at close proximity wash over him, and wrapped clumsy arms over his head in a helpless attempt to protect himself.

An electric crackle. A scream, high and inhuman and from _more than one throat_. Strife's blood ran cold again, and he pressed his forehead to the floor, eyes squeezed shut, and _prayed_.

“I did say _almost_ ,” said Kirin, mildly.

Strife would have stayed there, on the floor, curled into a ball with arms over his head as he waited for his inevitable death at the hands of one of the two forces of nature fighting behind him – but, between the bouts of noise behind him, he could still hear faint whimpering.

_Parvis_ , he remembered, dully, forcing himself to look up. Parvis was still tied to the table, just a few feet away from him, straining so hard against his leash in the opposite direction to the two demigods that he was practically choking himself.

This close, Strife could see – with a sick, swooping horror that was just another layer of fear atop the bone-deep terror that had already wormed its way under his skin – that one of his eyes was milky white, chemical-burn-blind, and the other was… well. He didn't want to look at it too closely, but the crusting blood and oozing pus was a good indication that it wasn't working particularly well either.

“Come on,” he muttered to himself, levering himself up onto hands and knees even as there was another wash of heat. He heard something that sounded suspiciously like Kirin snarling pain behind him, laughter from far more than two mouths. There was the sonic boom of what could only be another starstrike, this one thankfully far away enough it didn't drive him to the floor. He flinched anyways, gasping. “Come on, Strife, _come on_ -”

Slowly, laboriously, every inch of him aching, he began to crawl. From behind him, there was a thud, and another, a noise like breaking bone. He very resolutely did not _dare_ look back.

“Parvis,” he managed, when he reached the panicking man, touching his shoulder gently. “Hey, Parvis-” Parvis screamed at the touch, actually _screamed_ , high and thin and lost against another crackle from behind Strife and Ridge's far louder, many-voiced howl of pain. “It's me, it's Strife, I'm gonna- I'm gonna get you out-”

With fumbling fingers, he grabbed for the collar, trying to find the buckle and unclip it. When that proved too much, with Parvis' shaking and flinching, he settled for the clip of the leash, unhooking it from the D-ring of the collar so Parvis was at least not choking himself any more.

The minute he was free, Parvis lurched away from Strife with a gasp, half-crawling, half-slumping over against the leg of the table furthest from both Strife and the commotion. For a moment, Strife considered going after him – but there was Parv, too, a small distance from the table, still sprawled on the floor with a small puddle of blood beneath his head, soaking into his dark hair. His eyes were still closed.

With the ache in his limbs fading, and the sounds of the fight dying down, Strife gritted his teeth and hauled himself to his feet as soon as he was out from under the table. His first few steps were teetering, unstable, but by the time he made it over to Parv he was steady enough on his feet to crouch down without any problem. “Parv!” he said, urgently, patting the blood mage's cheek as hard as he dared, stomach tight with an entirely new kind of fear. “Parv- c'mon, Parv, open your goddamn eyes, _c'mon_ -”

Another scream, another crackle, the sound of breaking porcelain yet again from behind him – Strife whirled round on instinct, unable to help himself.

His jaw nearly hit the floor at what he saw.

Looking at the scene made his eyes hurt, in the same way that staring at the sun did. Ridge was too-bright, _glowing_ , radiating dirty-white light from him as if he were a star teetering on the edge of supernova. There was a sense of _shrinking_ , as if he were pulling back into himself from something so much bigger. His skin seemed to be shifting weirdly, unnaturally, like there was something writhing and _alive_ beneath it, though it was hard to see beneath the light.

What shocked Strife, though, was the collar of living lightning coiled tight around his throat, and the victorious Kirin standing over him, a little scorched but still _smiling_.

As the light cleared, he got a clearer view – Ridge was on his knees and bloody, beaten, his nose dripping crimson and both his eyes bruised and swollen. One side of his face seemed almost _cracked_ , filthy light shining out through it despite the rest of the glow fading. His hands, where they were wrapped around the collar, futilely trying to pry it off his neck or break it, were burnt and blackened, almost _bubbling_. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, turning Strife's stomach, until Ridge let go with a cry and collapsed sideways to the floor.

Behind Strife, Parv managed a hoarse, “ _Yeah_. Get _Parved_.”

Strife turned his head to see Parv levering himself slowly up onto hands and knees. He looked pale, shaky, one side of his face streaked livid crimson from whatever bit of his scalp was bleeding beneath his hair – but there was a bared-teeth, vicious look of _satisfaction_ on his face as he watched Ridge on the floor, twitching, the collar biting into the tender skin of his neck.

“Oh, thank god,” muttered Strife, resisting the urge to throw himself at an obviously-injured Parv and instead pushing himself to his feet. In his relief, he didn’t even consider pointing out that it was, in fact, Kirin who had brought Ridge to his knees. “Thank _god_. You- you scared me there for a minute, Parv. You- really scared me.”

Parv grinned, lopsided and exhausted. The expression didn't reach his eyes – there was no happiness there, just a faint spark of heavily-suppressed terror and panic.

“Strife!” called Kirin, casually, and Strife's head shot up, tearing his gaze away to stare at the demigod. They were brushing down the front of their robes, calm and unhurried, as if they hadn't just-

Well. Strife wasn't entirely sure what they'd done. In all honesty, he didn't think he wanted to know.

“Yeah?” he said, cautiously, taking a few reluctant steps away from Parv and towards Kirin. His disassembler lay on the floor, abandoned and switched off, and he stooped to pick it up before stopping in front of Kirin. Given what he'd seen, he was under _no_ illusions as to exactly how much good it would do as a weapon against Kirin – but it was a comfort blanket, of sorts, at least.

“Take the Parvises, Strife,” said Kirin, almost gently, either ignorant of or determinedly ignoring the way all three of the mortals in the room were staring in their general direction with varying levels of open-mouthed fear. “We can discuss your debt later. For now, I’ll deal with _this_.” 

They nudged Ridge’s head with the tip of one shoe, and smiled, before crouching down. “Oh,” they murmured, too low for Strife or either Parvis to hear, petting Ridge’s hair with one still-sparking hand. “I am going to have _fun_ with you.”

Ridge was barely conscious, but there was enough sense in him left to make a weak, disgruntled noise when Kirin pulled him into something approaching a kneeling position by his hair. “Doesn’t feel so good when it’s being done to you, hmm?” said Kirin, mildly, manhandling him into an upright enough position that he could teleport them both without risking being dragged to the floor on landing by Ridge’s weight.

Groaning softly, both eyes swollen nearly shut and blood leaking from his mouth and nose, Ridge was in no position to reply.

Smiling pleasantly, with a nod to Strife and the Parvises, Kirin wrapped a hand around the collar of lightning encircling Ridge’s throat – as if it were a physical thing rather than a thin line of blue-white light and electricity, as if it didn’t bite and _burn_ – and vanished.

“Wait-!” yelled Strife, lurching forward to grab at thin air. “Kirin, wait- god _damn it_!”

He was left, alone – with Parvis still cowering under the table, whimpering, Parv knelt a few feet from him, one jetpack between the three of them, and home half a continent away.

“God _damn_ them,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his damp hair, clothes still dripping rainwater onto RIdge’s polished basalt floors. “Stupid- fucking _demigods_ , useless pieces of-” Without Kirin there, alone in the empty, echoing castle a long way from home, he suddenly felt very lost.

It was Parv that made the first move, in the end, sucking in a deep breath as if unfrozen and scrambling towards Parvis where he was still hunched in on himself, blind and terrified and making small, desperate noises. “It’s- it’s okay, me, it’s okay,” he said, voice shaking a little as he reached out to touch Parvis’ shoulder, twitching when Parvis flinched. “It’s okay, Ridge is- he’s gone, Kirin’s taken him, we’re- we’re safe now. You’re safe. I promise.”

Shaking hands found Parvis’ throat, despite the other man’s trembling, tracing the thick leather of the collar round until he found the buckle. “Let’s- let’s get this off, c’mon, Parvy’s gonna get this off you, and then- and then- we’re gonna-” He lost his words, fumbling with the buckle, trying to get his fingers to work right and biting down on a curse when his fingers were shaking too much to grip properly.

There was a distinct note of hysteria to his voice that turned Strife’s stomach.

“Parv,” he said, gently, and his heart broke when Parv actually _flinched_ at his voice. “Hey. _Hey_.” He got down onto one knee, stiffly, and then the other, with a wince, shuffling over towards the two of them. “It’s- it’s okay, Parv, just- just take a deep breath, calm down a moment. Just _breathe_.”

Parv finally, _finally_ managed to undo the buckle. As Strife approached, he grabbed the scrap of leather, flung it as far away as he could manage, and then practically threw himself at Strife with a gasp like he was _drowning_.

“Oh, boy,” muttered Strife, eyes closing as he wrapped an arm around Parv, let him press close and clutch at the front of Strife’s shirt like it was a lifeline. Next to them, Parvis made a soft, scared noise. “Hey. Hey, Parvis, it’s just me – just Strife.” He stretched out a tentative hand, fingers hovering an inch from Parvis’ shoulder. “I’m- I’m gonna touch you now, okay?”

Predictably, Parvis flinched at the contact, but after a moment he pressed into it as if the warmth of Strife’s palm was the only thing keeping him anchored to existence. “ _Strife_ ,” he whispered, voice raw and ruined and rusty-nails, and Strife swallowed, hard. “Strife- Strife, I’m- I’m- _Parvis_.”

Strife brushed a thumb across the scarred, bony expanse of Parvis’ shoulder, and exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” he said, softly. “Yeah, buddy, you’re- you’re Parvis all right. And you’re safe now. Kirin’s taken Ridge somewhere far away, and- and you’re gonna come back with us, to the tower, and we’re gonna fix you up, okay?” He exhaled again, his even breathing the only thing keeping him from crying, and dipped his head to press a kiss against the corner of Parv’ mouth.

“ _Don’t_ -” said Parv, hoarsely, hands tightening in Strife’s shirt, and Strife _froze_. He remembered Ridge, hand around Parv’s throat, cock hard, and his blood ran ice cold with rage for a split second before his anger was subsumed under an inescapable, exhausting wave of _sadness_. “Just- just. Don’t. Not- not right now.”

“…Okay. Okay. Shh,” Strife murmured thickly, rubbing a gentle hand up and down Parv’s back, one hand still on Parvis’ thin, trembling shoulder. There was so much he wanted to say to them both, so much he wanted to apologise for, to promise them, to _comfort_ them – but the words stuck in his throat, choking him until his eyes started watering, and it was all he could do to cling to the two men in front of him and stare up at the ceiling as he tried not to cry. “Shh, shh. It’s okay. You’re safe now. It’s gonna be okay. I promise. I _promise_.”

He had no way to promise, really. No way to guarantee that he’d ever be able to undo even a fraction of the pain Ridge had caused them, the damage he’d done to them. But god damn, he thought – as he sat there on the floor of Ridge’s castle and held the three of them together, shaking, crying, still not quite sure if it was _over_ – if he wasn’t going to _try_.


End file.
